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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27107422">A House With No Ghosts</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmortentiaInMyVeins/pseuds/AmortentiaInMyVeins'>AmortentiaInMyVeins</a>, <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/DreadfulCatTranslations/pseuds/DreadfulCatTranslations'>DreadfulCatTranslations</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Post-Hogwarts, Romance, Severus Snape Lives, Suspense</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 16:22:38</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>35,910</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27107422</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmortentiaInMyVeins/pseuds/AmortentiaInMyVeins, https://archiveofourown.org/users/DreadfulCatTranslations/pseuds/DreadfulCatTranslations</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"In a dark town, there was a dark neighbourhood. In the dark neighbourhood, there was a dark street. On the dark street, next to a dark chimney, there was a dark house. In the dark house, there lived a dark wizard…"</i>
  <br/>
</p><p>When Daily Prophet reporter Hermione Granger was sent on a mission to pen down the memoirs of The-Potions-Master-Who-Survived, she knew it would not be an easy task. She didn’t know the half of it.<br/></p><p>Now she is ‘caught’ in an old, unloved house with a man whose motives she doesn’t understand, contemplating failed relationships and the meaning of love.<br/></p><p>And then there is the mysterious boy who looks a little too much like Severus Snape.<br/></p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Hermione Granger/Severus Snape</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>71</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>93</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Severus Snape</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">


        <li>
            A translation of

            <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/703057">Дом без привидений</a> by Агамма.
        </li>

    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Yet again, several people across different countries and continents made this work possible.</p><p>All hail to SelkieWitch for your wonderful suggestions and giving a unique voice to a certain character. </p><p>AmortentiaInMyVeins - is a co-author, a hero, and an editor extraordinaire whose input for this translation work has been tremendous. Thank you! It wouldn't have been possible without you!</p><p>Агамма - thank you for entrusting your baby - your wonderful and much loved work for us to translate. </p><p>And, last but not least - thank you, Sir Timothy John Berners-Lee!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <i>What is this silent house,<br/>
Immersed in darkness,<br/>
Among the seven dashing<br/>
Turbulent winds,<br/>
All windows<br/>
Facing the ravine,<br/>
And all gates—<br/>
A carriageway?</i>
</p><p><a id="back1" name="back1"></a><a id="back2" name="back2"></a>V.S. Vysotsky<a href="#note1"><sup>1</sup></a></p><p> </p><p> </p><p>I Apparated into the shadow of a chimney attached to an abandoned mill just before dark. I chose the chimney as my reference point simply because there was nothing else of note in the area. It didn’t make my search any easier. For an hour I circled the surrounding narrow, snow covered lanes, so similar to each other as to be indistinguishable.</p><p>Houses on one side of the street looked like reflections of those opposite. All so old, dreary and abandoned it was hard to picture them in better times. Boarded-up windows, rusty signs with indistinguishable inscriptions… and not a single soul to be seen. By the end of my mindless wanderings those streets struck me as some sort of ghosts of themselves. That endless labyrinth of brickwork gave the impression of a graveyard. If my ears weren’t frozen cold and I hadn’t smelled that horrible stench that irritated me more and more with each passing moment, I would have thought I had fallen asleep over another article on Magecology and would have mentally tried to find a way out of the verbal deadlock of my dream.</p><p>A dead end.</p><p>I mentioned Merlin’s unmentionables quietly, hoping that nobody could hear me, turned around, walked into another dark, narrow street and reached the source of the nasty smell— a murky river with rubbish-strewn banks. Ready-made material for an article about environmental safety and protection.</p><p>I sighed resignedly and adjusted my bag on my shoulder. The streets came to an end here. There were no houses on the other side of the river, only a rubbish dump lightly dusted with snow. I wouldn’t have stayed a second longer on this God-forsaken riverbank if not for a clicking sound coming from somewhere near the water’s edge. Maybe there was life here, after all?</p><p>Holding my bag I squeezed through a hole in the rusty fence and picked my way down the slippery slope, almost falling into the water at the bottom. The source of the sound ceased to be a mystery, but my appearance didn’t interrupt the monotonous chatter. A boy of eight or nine kept throwing pebbles into a tin can and didn’t pay much attention to the strange, disheveled witch before him. But how would he know I was one?</p><p>“Hi!” my cheerfulness may have seemed a bit unnatural to him, but I was happy and relieved to finally meet someone. “You live here, don’t you?”</p><p>The child looked up at me, without ceasing to throw the small pebbles, narrowed his eyes and answered after a small pause. “Aye, under that car wi’ the rats.”</p><p>He didn't turn around, but he must have known from memory that a little further on a wreck of an overturned car lay embedded in the riverbank. The boy must have been  quite sure that he had made up a good joke. In fact, looking at him it was easy to believe that yes— this was where he lived if you judged him by the dirty clothes he wore that were undoubtedly hand-me-downs and the fact that he looked as if he was getting cold.</p><p>What if he <i>wasn’t</i> joking? Ron would say that I was getting carried away again. I’m always like that, I know. I’m constantly drawn to saving others: from knitting the completely unwanted hats for the house-elves to writing those articles about environmental protection that are of no interest to anyone. And now I want to scrub down some dirty-faced child. This impulse may have been a side-effect of the war. But this boy, of course, didn’t know about <i>any</i> war; he had a derisive and smug look on his face. Clearly, he <i>was</i> joking. Anyway, it wouldn’t hurt to get him washed and have his hair trimmed. What were his parents thinking? Is this an alien dimension where nothing is as it should be? Honestly, it seems as if even time flows differently here— almost like slowly circling water in a ditch.</p><p><i>Tink!</i> Another pebble lands square into the tin and I ask again, calmly, as an adult should. “Do you happen to know where Spinner’s Street is?”</p><p>I’m an adult. I am. I’ve been a reporter at The Daily Prophet for two years now. Our paper has expanded a lot since the war. Things have gone uphill, and now I am entrusted with various important projects, like Magecology and this business trip. I remind myself I am here to work and resolve not to let myself get involved with this insolent street urchin.</p><p><i>Tink!</i> The boy’s cracked hands are already red from cold but he grabs another handful of broken pieces of brick and moves a couple steps further away from the tin.</p><p>“Spinner’s Street?” he snorts somewhat puzzled. “Spinner’s <i>End</i>, you mean?”</p><p>“I guess...” I answer with uncertainty.</p><p>“What you after there then?” His voice expresses a genuine surprise but the look in his eyes is one of wary dislike.</p><p>‘Wolf cub’ I think for some reason, studying his watchful, unsmiling eyes. The river behind him has the same colour, dark and bottomless.</p><p>“I want to visit a friend,” I say, not wanting to get into details. The boy is old enough to understand the inappropriateness of his question.</p><p>He sneers almost mockingly at me and declares with relish: “You’re lying. Nobody lives there, except us!”</p><p>“So, you live on Spinner’s End?” I ask, happily grasping at a straw.</p><p>“Well, not here!” the boy snaps. It seems it is very important to him to emphasize the difference. “You didn’t believe it, right? You go towards that chimney, see?” He points with a dirty finger in the direction from which I had just come. “The ginnel starts where that wall ends.”</p><p>I mumble my sincere thanks and start looking for that chimney again.</p><p><i>Tink!</i> Another piece of broken brick lands into the tin behind my back.</p><p>“Hey! What about paying me?” the child’s hoarse voice calls after me.</p><p>I blush, even though I know his services are not worth the money he wants. I dig through the pockets of my jacket, hoping there’s some spare Muggle change left. I only find a couple of coins and I give them to the surly local. He sniffs with contempt but takes the money anyway. I want to give him something else. A scarf, for example. But that would be stupid, right?</p><p>“What’s your name?” I ask, for some reason.</p><p>“What do you care?”</p><p>I can’t find an answer to his question and all that is left for me is to shake my head like the adult I am.</p><p>“Do your parents know what you do here instead of going to school?”</p><p>The boy steps back and bares his teeth in a mirthless grin. He maybe thinks I’m some kind of a social worker looking for his home. Or is this how he reacts to a slightest threat? I feel embarrassed and I don’t know why. I don’t want to further humiliate myself in the eyes of this sombre child, so I climb back up the banking. I slip, of course, and, needless to say, my jacket and bag are now filthy. And, of course, an unchildlike, cold and coarse laughter follows me. He says something I don’t quite understand; some choice phrases which I can only vaguely decipher even though I grew up among Muggles and have been friends with boys all my life. I unwrap my scarf, hang it around the crooked fence and pull myself up onto the slippery and broken pavement. I can’t hear his laughter anymore, however, but the steady tinks of stones accompany me all the way until I turn around the corner.</p><p>I think about this encounter for the rest of my walk. A feeling of uneasiness creeps over me, as though I’d just met a ghost. No, that isn’t quite true. In the magical world ghosts are common and I haven’t been afraid of them for a long, long time. I saw a child caught in a ghostly world; that would be more accurate. What future does that boy have? What kind of adult will he become? Who can grow up in this dead place? If only he were a wizard. He could go to Hogwarts then. He’ll be lost otherwise. It’s not a nice thing for me to say, of course. This is just an ordinary neighbourhood in an ordinary city even if it’s a dying one. But people do live here too! Surely that child still could have a loving family, a warm room, and a puppy with a wet nose and shaggy legs. But somehow, it seems to me, there’s nothing to it here. It wouldn’t feel so much like a graveyard otherwise.</p><p>I’m anxiously thinking about the hard work and the first impression I’ll soon create. I know I can work hard and that my first impression won’t be really the first. So, I stubbornly force myself to think about the puppies instead. Maybe it’s because I had a puppy once. He was hit by someone’s car. </p><p>Maybe it’s because I had intended to marry not so long ago and was planning to have a child in the future. A child with kind, happy eyes, and this child would have had a dog. A wet-nosed one. My nose is wet right now. I’m not crying, I’m tired, and it looks like I’m getting a cold. I’d rather be sitting down by the fireplace and drinking something hot now. A Pepperup Potion would be nice.</p><p>It’s dark now, and the only street lamps  that work are the ones at the crossroads behind me. I’m sure I will spend another hour knocking on the wrong doors. But suddenly I notice a light in a window of the very last dilapidated house clinging to the fence of the mill. There’s a light! Oh, happiness! I’m sure I was here before, but I didn’t notice this house at all. If my nameless helper is to be believed, this is either his home or the place I’ve been searching for. Just in case, I take out my handkerchief, wipe my nose, smooth my hair, and adjust the bag on my shoulder. I knock on the door and— lo and behold!— it opens. It <i>only</i> took me less than two hours to get here!</p><p>I’m so overjoyed that I can’t say a word at first. My natural inclination is to throw myself at the owner of this house, which is almost as impulsive as my wish to give a scarf to a random boy. But I restrain myself this time. I just stand there smiling happily. After all, I almost believed that he did not exist, that I would have to return with nothing. It would have been so vexing, and it’s so great that he’s there!</p><p>Here he is… Severus Snape.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p><a id="note1" name="note1"></a><sup>1</sup>Translator’s note: The fragment of the poem here is actually a song by <strong>Vladimir Semyonovich Vysotsky</strong> (Владимир Семёнович Высоцкий, 25 January 1938 – 25 July 1980) who was a Soviet singer-songwriter, poet, and actor. His work had an immense and enduring effect on many Russian-speaking musicians and actors today. He became widely known for his unique singing style and for his lyrics, which featured social and political commentary in often humorous street jargon. You can listen to this song “The House (What Is This Silent House…)” on Youtube <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QlJYxk4TO1g">here.</a></p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. The Half-Blood</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>I remember the rumble of thunder<br/>
And my two hands, as cold as ice.<br/>
I call for you. — He is at home,<br/>
He'll come at once.</em>
</p><p><a id="back1" name="back1"></a><a id="back2" name="back2"></a>Marina Tsvetaeva<a href="#note2"><sup>2</sup></a></p><p> </p><p>I was glad, really, that I found the Professor in good health. After the victory he had stopped appearing publicly anywhere, and he wouldn’t give a single interview to anybody though he was regularly asked. And then, unexpectedly, he agreed to our last offer. Mr Pollard, our editor-in-chief, simply couldn’t believe his eyes, and for a whole five minutes gawked at the parchment which his owl had returned. The editorial staff, feeling puzzled, even began to gather around— everyone was guessing that either the publishing house was being closed, that Voldemort had returned again, or the Statute of Secrecy was getting lifted and the Muggle and the Wizarding World were to be united. However, the news, as it turned out, was even more unexpected.</p><p>Mr Pollard’s girth allowed for the entire crowd of people to gather around him neatly, and soon everybody was reading the sensational message. Mr Pollard, however, just to be sure, shoved the letter into my hands— in case this should be someone’s horrible prank. Nobody wanted to show up at Professor Snape’s house <em>uninvited</em>, and so I was tasked with verifying the authenticity of his signature. And since I didn’t flinch while doing it, I was sent here.</p><p>Well, I’m quite decent at writing. But, there are a lot of writers, and no matter what I scribble down, the editors, headed by Marius Pollard himself, will rework my draft a hundred times. My sole indispensability was the fact that I was the only one who didn’t <em>really</em> oppose communicating one-on-one for many hours with Severus Snape. I was excited, even. Thrilled, really. After all, we had a common goal once. Some time ago. And I was always curious to learn more about everything, especially how things really <em>were</em>.</p><p>That’s why I was standing there, smiling. And the Professor, of course, did not smile. Actually, he never does. I’m used to it. My being Gryffindor and having Harry Potter as a friend, both of which played heavily in my life, meant that I wouldn’t be awarded with even one friendly look by the former Head of the Slytherins… Not even once throughout my school years— neither in Potions, nor in DADA— even though I knew his subjects quite well. Or, maybe it was because I was almost gobbled-up by a troll? Or, was it due to the fact that one of his students cursed my teeth to grow like a beaver’s? Though, it was <em>me</em> who stole the Boomslang skin. And that was <em>me</em> who casted Expelliarmus in the Shrieking Shack— I was really upset about how he treated Mr Black.</p><p>“Hello, sir!” I say with obvious relief. “I could barely find your house.”</p><p>There’s a familiar sneer.</p><p>“So this is who they sent me— Miss Granger! I do apologize— should I call you Mrs Weasley already?”</p><p>It started <em>so</em> well.</p><p>“Not yet,” I almost add the familiar “sir” and hurry on, not willing to go into details about my personal life. “May I come in? It’s cold outside.”</p><p>“Since you’re already here, do come in,” he replies in a bland voice. “Though, it is not much warmer inside— I don’t use the fireplace.”</p><p>Why not? Especially, in wintertime? Is it because he’s so used to dungeons that he prefers warming charms only? I <em>do</em> think that fire is a much more pleasant option than charms. The small, dim living room is rather cheerless without any light.</p><p>“May I light the fire?” I ask while he locks the door with a wave of his wand. </p><p>“You may try,” my former teacher says with the same intonation. “Do make yourself at home. No need to be shy.”</p><p>I feel like I’ve already done something wrong, and we haven’t even started to work yet. Well, I didn’t really expect harmonious teamwork. My job is to collect the most complete material for the book and try my best not to be kicked out too early— I am aware of that possibility. I’m still wondering what really happened between him and Harry that he refused to continue the Occlumency lessons, despite <em>the greater good</em>. It’s good that I will mostly listen and it will be up to him to dictate what he wants. He’s got teaching experience after all— what could be easier?</p><p>He’s probably glad that he’s not teaching anymore. I wouldn’t be surprised if, after all the drama he’s endured, the former Headmaster couldn’t stand to even look in the direction of Hogwarts. I didn’t think he'd survive. But he’s quite alright; he pulled through. And now he wants to write a memoir about everything that happened. He has a truly indomitable will, it seems.</p><p>I’m thinking about all this while I wave my wand at the fireplace and the owner of the house settles into his chair under a dim chandelier (in which half of the candles are not lit) and looks at me with such a patient expectation that I feel uncomfortable. And then it dawns upon me.</p><p>“I’m sorry, Professor Snape, but didn't they tell you that <em>I</em> was the one coming?” I stand frozen with the firewood suspended in the air with the help of the <em>Accio</em> spell. “Mr Pollard sent you a letter.”</p><p>“Perhaps,” he says apathetically. “I was away and haven’t browsed through my letters yet.”</p><p>How embarrassing! It probably seems to him as though I appeared out of the blue— and at this ungodly hour! Mr Pollard should have waited for a reply, but apparently he didn’t want to take any chances that Snape may change his mind. Not to mention the fact that I could have been circling around the mill for two hours for nothing. ‘Could have’ may be the wrong phrase here— to be fair, I can’t rule out the possibility that I <em>will</em> have to leave in vain soon. </p><p>“Professor Snape, please forgive me. There seems to have been a misunderstanding,” I mutter, frustrated. “Since you have just returned, you probably want to rest. I can come another day. Just tell me when, please.”</p><p>He looks at me and frowns for some reason.</p><p>“You are already here. Why should you come another day?” His sense of logic has always been unparalleled. “And yes, if it makes you feel better, you <em>may</em> still call me Professor— but that does <em>not</em> reflect reality anymore.”</p><p>He’s right. I called him that out of habit. But was it really so offensive? Admittedly, Mr Snape will always find a good reason to feel offended, and if not he will invent one. Better not to delve into it.</p><p>After some pause I bring the wood to the fireplace, cast an <em>Incendio</em> at it, and sit down on the edge of the settee.</p><p>“Does that mean that we will start working today?” I clarify, opening my bag.</p><p>The Professor looks at me with the same impenetrable expression.</p><p>“We could have started twenty minutes ago,” he remarks, looking at the clock on the wall.</p><p>By Merlin, I won’t last very long. I hope I can write something down, something not tоо lengthy.</p><p>Nodding silently, I take the self-extending parchment out of my bag, a special ink that enables me to produce two copies at once, and my regular quill.</p><p>Professor Snape tilts his head with interest.</p><p>“Will you be writing yourself?” he asks with displeasure.</p><p>Of course, who else? Oh, I see. No, I don’t like the Quick-Quotes Quill. I think better when writing it out myself. And it’s easier for me to decipher <em>my</em> handwriting. But these are my professional quirks. What does it matter to him?</p><p>“Yes, I do my own writing,” I say as evenly as I can. “Don’t worry— it won’t affect the result.”</p><p>“It will affect the time frame for achieving our result,” he notes, displeased— as if he expected it to be complete in a couple of hours. “It can't be helped. We will need to work more intensively then.”</p><p>“If it doesn’t distract you from your other matters, Professor...” It seems that I can’t overcome my habit of addressing him by his old honourific from our school days. Maybe it’s because I’m starting to get nervous.</p><p>And when I get nervous, I immediately start trying to prove things. This time I’m trying to assure Snape that, should it be necessary, I’m capable of working efficiently twenty-four hours a day. I have <em>only one</em> task to complete— to finish his memoirs. And, the sooner we start the sooner we’ll finish. After doubling my workload with the help of the Time-Turner at school nothing can frighten me.</p><p>I suspect Professor Snape’s workload oftentimes exceeded mine— without any help from the Time-Turner. That’s why he shrugs at my unconvincing attempts to prove my professional eagerness.</p><p>“I’m finished with everything,” he says with barely perceptible mockery. “The sooner we sit down, the sooner we can stand back up. Where should I start?”</p><p>“At your discretion, sir,” I reply, pulling a battered coffee table towards me. “People usually start their story with their parents or the place where they were born.”</p><p>I provide the most neutral option: people, as a rule, usually feel comfortable talking about their childhood. To be frank, I was having deep doubts from the very moment I was given the assignment to write about the life of Severus Snape. I’m not sure what will happen with this project. It could be everything or nothing. Most probably nothing.</p><p>With all due respect, Severus Snape is the most private person I’ve ever met. To be more precise, the most private person anyone has ever met. And it’s not due to his double or triple spy game he played for such a long time. It’s his personality. I highly suspect that even Voldemort had a more open disposition. Well, I’d rather choose Snape over Voldemort anytime. Although now, Snape’s face looks very unkind. Did I say something wrong? Again? This is exhausting. Is there <em>anything</em> I can say without garnering his wrath?</p><p>“I was born where you are sitting now,” he says without preamble and I involuntarily jump. “This sofa used to be in the room upstairs,” and he directs his gaze to the dim lamp as if to show me where the ‘upstairs’ is. “My father had just beaten my mother once again in one of his drinking fits. He had taken away her wand and locked her in the bedroom so that she wouldn't run to the police. He didn’t return until three days later.”</p><p>He really knows how to deliver a narrative— his tone is even, with just a right tempo and intonation. But suddenly I realize that I have forgotten all the letters. I put away my quill and stare at him with mute stupefaction. I open my mouth but I can’t find the words.</p><p>“Should I write it down verbatim, sir?” I clarify after a pause, trying to give my tone some professional politeness.</p><p>I can’t decipher him. Is he serious… or is this some kind of test? Is this some kind of strange humour? If I write <em>this</em> down word-for-word will he kick me out on the street right away? </p><p>“Write it as you see fit,” he says patiently. “You are the wordsmith here. However, I will check your work after each chapter and make all necessary corrections.”</p><p>Yes, this was mentioned in the agreement with the editorial board and is a common practice. I continue to blink with confusion, not because he doesn’t trust me in the slightest. I can't figure out why he trusts me at all. But since he’s not joking… I suddenly feel hot— presumably from all the warmth emanating from the fireplace— and decide to take off my jacket. There’s nothing else to do and I can’t really avert my eyes.</p><p>“Ok, sir,” I utter at last, picking my quill. “What would you like to talk about in the first chapter?”</p><p>The Professor looks at me with a strange smirk and flicks his hair back from his face with a familiar head movement I know from school.</p><p>“We will talk about my <em>happy childhood</em>, Miss Granger,” he replies, leaning back in his chair. “About the first ten years, to be precise. We will start with my parents...”</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>* * *</p>
</div>Sleep eludes me for half the night, and when I wake up in the morning I cry for another half hour until I can get myself out of the bed. The gloomy street of Spinner’s End has a depressing effect on me. Or, maybe it’s because of Ron. Or, in these twenty inches I wrote down, listening to the Professor’s words. I will need to re-read what I wrote there, lest he will mark it with “Troll.”<p>The sooner we get the book together, the sooner I can get out of here.</p><p>And why shouldn't I leave this house right now to take a walk and unwind? It’s a good question. The answer is even better: because if I should leave this place, I won’t come back again. This statement may seem odd but Professor Snape is odd himself. Yesterday he told me that until the memoir was completed, I wouldn't take one step out of that door. What if I were to tattle everything to somebody or take the half-written draft to the editor’s office? According to him, this was allegedly spelled out in the agreement as well. But the agreement, of course, <em>did not</em> imply and <em>could not</em> imply anything of that sort. Even house elves have been freed from their slavery, and for the reporter of <em>The Daily Prophet</em>, such confining conditions are absolutely unacceptable. But what does it matter to him? That’s <em>so</em> Snape!</p><p>I remember perfectly well that the agreement with the publishers was based solely on my word of honour and my signature guaranteeing non-disclosure of any information related to the book. It was welcome from my side— even though everyone knows that I’m not a blabbermouth. But the Professor (and I will continue calling him that for old time’s sake— so as not to call him <em>worse!</em>) didn’t even argue with it when I declared that I can leave at any moment. He just warned me that in that case I would finish the rest of the chapters without him.</p><p>And of course I stayed— the fool I am. So what? Should I just admit that I couldn’t cope with the task and leave this work to someone less <em>difficult</em>? They’d sack me. Judging from his mocking smirk, he understood this completely. So, there wasn't much left to talk about on the matter.</p><p>He also forbade me from corresponding with anyone. The first and last owl before the end of the book came to me on the same evening from my editor-in-chief. Mr Pollard wanted to know how things were going and if I was still alive. I made the situation clear to him in a reply letter. I asked him to explain everything to my family and friends, and also to warn them in case they tried to come to my rescue— Professor Snape is a very powerful and dangerous wizard. I was afraid to let the owl go, but it wouldn’t be such a good idea to keep her in captivity, would it? There was scarcely even room for me since there were no other rooms available in the house.</p><p>“It’ll be fine,” I consoled myself as I climbed up to the attic, “I still needed to look for a separate apartment, anyway. Plus, now I can be as close to my work as possible, and I can immerse into the topic completely with no chance of accidentally bumping into Ron.”</p><p>It will be fine. An attic—  that’s fine. On the lower floors, the rooms are tiny, but this room is huge. It’s cold here but if I push my bed next to the chimney and wrap myself in warming charms and a blanket, then I'll only have a slightly runny nose in the morning. The Professor has enough Pepper-Up Potion, anyway.</p><p>I can transfigure any missing items. I’m very good at transfiguration. I can order food through the Floo Network— my Gringotts’ Card is with me. Everything will be just fine— it's just for a few weeks, no more! It’s a bit unexpected, but it won’t kill me.</p><p>A few weeks alone with Professor Snape! I let out a stifled groan. Should I just leave it to be— his memoir?</p><p>On the other hand, I’m sure we won’t be together <em>all day long</em>. He must have a whole bunch of other things to do. I <em>might</em> even see other people. There must be some other people visiting him, right? </p><p>For Merlin’s sake, who <em>would</em> visit him? </p><p>Judging by the state of this house, the owner himself only visits once every decade! After his revelations yesterday this house makes my skin crawl. I can’t fathom why he hasn't sold it yet. Maybe he'll tell me someday.</p><p>Despite how odd everything is, I’m more eager than ever to hear his story to the end. Even still. It’s kind of an occupational disease I have; I can’t help it. I suffer from Professional Journalist’s Syndrome, symptoms of which include fervour and curiosity. Without it, it’s generally impossible to be a journalist. I’m afraid, however, that after this book is finished, I will want to lay down my pen for good.</p><p>And, why does all this affect me so much? I think it may have to do with my situation with Ron. I think I will need to eat something really quick and get down to business. Just don’t think, don’t think, don’t…</p><p>I can’t reign in my mane without a special hair balm and it won’t do to ask the Professor to make me one, will it? With the help of comb and magic I somehow manage to make a passable ponytail and put on my clothes. In fact, I already have my jumper on, I just need to put on my jeans. What does it matter that I staggered through the dirty streets in them yesterday? That’s what the Cleaning Spell is for.</p><p>I go down to the first floor. The bathroom is a tiny closet-like room which is also divided in two by a plywood wall. It looks like the house was renovated some years after it was built. It also appears that the current owner doesn’t really care about comfort. Otherwise, with the help of magic, he could have squeezed in a bathtub. Or, at least a better sink. But the present sink is tiny and scruffy— just like the shower for which the curtain is missing. Honestly, this is beyond my understanding! Is he messing with me on purpose?</p><p>There’s only cold water here. Never mind, I’ll heat it up with my charms. I’m running out of small items to transfigure and I don’t feel comfortable enough to borrow Snape’s stuff, so I temporarily turn my hairpin into a hairbrush. It’s harder with toothpaste— you can’t really conjure it so easily. But then I get lucky. In a cupboard which seems to be missing its mirror, I find a box containing an old tooth powder. <em>A tooth powder.</em> No comments. I will save my comments for these notorious memoirs.</p><p>The owner of the house, by the way, is nowhere to be seen. As I walk back from the bathroom down the narrow, dark corridor, I pass his door a second time, but there’s no sound of movement behind it. I could knock on his door— that would be the easiest option— but not with Professor Snape. It’s better not to bother him until he decides to come out. It is unlikely that I will ever be allowed in his private quarters, despite having the honour of being his memoirist. It’s a pity— I think it would have been useful for the book. I approach my work with the utmost determination, of course. I’m always very determined with everything. Isn’t it why Ron couldn’t take it anymore?</p><p>No matter how much I try to distract myself I still regret my failed personal life. Two years for nothing— that’s a worthy cause to feel regretful about. And, most importantly, there’s just no way for us to make up. We didn’t really fight. I don’t really know why we broke up. </p><p>Of course, Ron was interested in other women and left his socks lying everywhere. Of course, I cooked only scrambled eggs and worked late nights. But that’s not the point! We just couldn’t find things to talk about anymore. </p><p>At some point, we realized that we were talking about the past only— about Voldemort, Dumbledore, Harry… but not about us. We got at the truth of the matter and decided to remain friends. And it didn’t change anything. Anything at all. So much so that I began to wonder if we ever had been anything <em>but</em> friends. It’s so easy and fun for friends to do everything together— to do homework, to fight the enemy, to lose our virginity…</p><p>Harry and Ginny are different. I know that she would scratch his eyes out if he dared to look at another woman. And Harry wouldn't let her go as easy as that. He would have suffered. He would have fought for her and demanded an explanation. Ron didn’t demand anything. He didn’t even ask me to move out. It’s so <em>comfortable</em> and <em>normal</em> to live together when you’re friends. And that is why I packed my things immediately. </p><p>We screwed up and there’s nothing we can do. Oh well, it’s not like I’m heartbroken. I’m just upset. How can I know what love is if I’ve never experienced it before? Can anyone explain it to me so that I’m not mistaken in future again? Someone must know it, right?</p><p>In the dusty and gloomy living room downstairs I order some croissants from my favourite cafe on Diagon Alley through the Floo Network. Ron and I loved to go there, and we lived pretty close to it… I feel sad again. And yet, that wasn’t love. It was a habit. I’m feeling an emptiness and longing for the time when I believed that <em>this</em> was love. And why didn't it work out? Why didn’t we fall head over heels? Why didn’t it click? Harry said that everything just clicks. Or it flutters. But how and why?</p><p>I’ll need to wait at least ten minutes for my order to arrive. They have a long queue and my fireplace is far away. I drag myself to the kitchen which is hidden behind a creaky door covered with books. In the living room books are everywhere— on the walls, on the windowsill, on the mantelpiece… I’m surprised the Professor hasn’t tried to affix bookshelves to the ceiling yet! But I love books, books are amazing, and I will have something to do to pass my evenings while I’m here. I can improve on my magical education. But I will need to ask Snape’s permission first. Something tells me that you can’t just ‘borrow’ a book here.</p><p>By contrast, in the kitchen all the shelves are empty. Empty, empty, empty… Not only does he not wash himself, but he also doesn't eat. Or drink. He’s a ghost. Or a dark wizard equal to Voldemort. He also didn’t need food, sleep, or heating. What a boring life Voldemort must have had, if you just think about it…</p><p>On the top shelf, I find a cobweb-covered can of coffee from the time of the first wizarding war with Him-Whose-Name-I-Don’t-Want-To-Remember-At-Night. I hope Snape will forgive me for taking a spoonful. Oddly enough, there are some cups as well. I make some coffee, which smells slightly musty, and go back to the living room to get my order out of the fireplace.</p><p>The flame in the fireplace is burning constantly now— I've spelled it so that I won't get cold again. The owner of the house has yet to make an appearance. I cheekily occupy his seat next to the window, pull back the dusty curtain and watch as Spinner’s End gets covered in snow. To be honest, I don't really want to go out there at all. There’s only murky cold slush outside yet again. </p><p>It feels like there’s no other kind of weather here.</p><p>Surprisingly the two years I lived on Diagon Alley remain in my memory as one continuously sunny day. However, I’m sure that there must have been some days with bad weather as well. I close my eyes, trying to enjoy the stale coffee and, for a moment, a feeling of melancholy creeps over me again. </p><p>A month ago, my coffee would certainly have been fresh, with cream, in a huge striped mug. Since today is Saturday, it would have started with George. George would be banging his fist on the door and yelling at the top of his lungs ‘Ronald! Ronald!’ I’d cover my ears with a pillow and Ron would carefully pull his hand from under my head. He would remark on Godric’s pants and then search for his own.</p><p>‘Ronald! You have three minutes left to get into the shop! And don’t forget to fetch some Puking Pastilles from the cupboard!’ George is unrelenting in regards to family business. </p><p>‘I will puke right now, no Pastilles needed,’ Ron would mutter darkly, but to his older brother he would only grumble, ‘Coming!’ because business is business. But George, of course, would not calm down:</p><p>‘Hermione! Hermione!’</p><p>I’d grind my teeth. </p><p>‘Hermione Jean Granger! Are you dead?’</p><p>My final attempt to sleep would fail. ‘No…’</p><p>‘Then, why are you up?! It's your day off!’</p><p>After half an hour I would crawl, wrapped in my robe, down into the shop to give Ron a kiss and exchange a few pleasantries with George. Then I'd dig out my striped mug, climb up on the wide windowsill in the kitchen, and start finalizing another article about Magecology which would be finished by Monday. And what was I missing? Everything was fine and nice. Ron was a great guy and Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes provided a stable income. And Magecology is an important and necessary topic.</p><p>Not for me. None of this is for me.</p><p>Finally, a fireproof package with my breakfast appears in the fireplace and I <em>Accio</em> it with my wand. I lower my numb legs from the chair and head up the creaking stairs back to the attic. I don’t think that the upholstery on the furniture can get more spoiled, but there’s at least some decency to be observed. Not everyone appreciates it when some outsider crumbles pastries all over their living room. Besides, I want to edit the draft of the first chapter— the sooner I'm done, the sooner I'll get out of here.</p><p>But I don’t manage to get to the attic. The Professor regards me from the first-floor landing with a look that makes it absolutely clear that it is not customary to eat in the attic in his house. Or to walk barefoot. Or to steal coffee. It’s just not done. </p><p>It seems that he doesn't plan to eat breakfast himself. He’s buttoned-up in a black robe even at home. Maybe he <em>is</em> a ghost?</p><p>“Good morning, sir!” I <em>almost</em> don’t choke on my coffee. “Are we going to work today?”</p><p>“Morning. If you wish,” I won’t get a polite smile from this man, naturally. “As soon as you’re done with chewing and ready to use your hands to hold a quill.”</p><p><em>Isn’t it sweet!</em> I’m <em>allowed</em> to finish my breakfast! But doesn’t he really have anything else to do? I hide my disappointed sigh. I won’t be able to sit down and edit. Just like I won’t finish my breakfast in peace. Oh well, I’ll do everything in the evening. I just need to adjust to the Professor’s schedule. He does have some kind of schedule, doesn’t he?</p><p>“Since you are here already,” he adds while I shift from foot to foot on the cold stairs, “Do come here. I will give you a tour before we sit down to write the memoirs. It will likely be of use to you.”</p><p>I nod and I take the warm bag with my breakfast into my other hand, and we walk towards his study room. Well, I call it a study. This tiny room above the kitchen is even smaller than the kitchen because a part of the space is taken by the corridor. All the walls are lined with shelves and all the shelves are filled with murky jars, sooty pots and boxes brimming with things like dried newt eyes. Well, this was to be expected.</p><p>It is also <em>quite expected</em> that there are three tables joined together, covered with stains of all known and unknown colours. <em>As expected</em>, the tables are piled with incredible structures of tripods, vials, and spirit stoves. But at least it says something about the character of the owner of the house. He may be unpleasant, maybe strange, but definitely... a character.</p><p>There are no windows and only a few candles are lit. The room looks cluttered and gloomy. But, inexplicably, I like it here. </p><p>I like it much more than his bedroom, the door of which the owner opens with the same unwavering indifference. There’s nothing to look at in his bedroom, nothing at all. A grey light creeps in from the dusty window. The bed is covered with a worn-out blanket. There’s a small nightstand with a glass of water standing on it. Everything just screams that there’s nothing to be said about it. And this in no way corresponds with his frankness yesterday. Maybe he was feeling unwell yesterday? Or, maybe, he drank something wrong— just look at all his supplies!</p><p>I’m intrigued and I cannot wait to find out how and what he will reveal to me today. But I only ask: “Excuse me, sir, but may I visit your study again sometime?”</p><p>“Of course,” the Professor replies, unfazed. “Any time.” And he goes to the living room— to wait till I’m finished with my croissants.</p><p>I shove them into my mouth one by one right here, on the stairway, flushing them down with cold coffee. A minute later, I’m sitting in my previous place on the corner of the sofa. I’m ready to begin. The professor is settled in the chair opposite me, in the same pose as yesterday and, with the same tone as yesterday, not looking at me but at the fireplace, he says: “Today I will tell you about Lily Evans.”</p><p>Yesterday’s work seems to have trained me— my hand is shaking only a little, and only at the beginning. But the beginning of his story doesn’t sound as scary as I thought. </p><p>People <em>are</em> eager to tell us about their childhood. And the Professor, even after thirty years, readily remembers all the details and dates. It’s easy to keep up with him. And I write. </p><p>I write about the creaking of the swing at the playground. About the sound that the wheels of the Hogwarts Express make. About the grumpy voice of the Sorting Hat. I write it down and keep wondering more and more. </p><p>Harry told me that Professor Snape dedicated his whole life to Harry’s mother. Or rather—  to her memory and his feeling of guilt. And he refused to talk about it with anyone. So how does he plan to go on after the book is published? And why does he want to risk being inevitably judged by the crowd? There’s no one forcing him!</p><p>It’s very hard to write about a person you don’t understand at all. Maybe he still misses Lily Evans and wants to immortalize her memory? Or, maybe, this is his way to get things off his chest? You can’t really tell. It’s easy to speak with dispassion about a potion to cure boils, but how can he speak this way about a woman he valued more than his life? Maybe I just can't grasp it. I hate not being able to understand things. I’m used to understanding everything. But I keep penning everything down and don’t ask about anything.</p><p>But someday, I will ask for sure. Someday later. One day. I <em>will</em> ask him.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p><a id="note2" name="note2"></a><sup>2</sup>Translator’s note: <strong>Marina Ivanovna Tsvetaeva</strong> (Мари́на Ива́новна Цвета́ева, 8 October 1892 – 31 August 1941) was a Russian poet. Her work is considered among some of the greatest in twentieth century Russian literature. Her poems are lyrical, expressive and closely relate to her very tragic life experiences.<br/>This poem “The August Day Was Softly Fleeting…” (День августовский тихо таял…), in Ilya Shambat’s translation can be read in English in full <a href="https://ruverses.com/marina-tsvetaeva/the-august-day-was-softly-fleeting/5749/">here.</a></p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. The Potions Master</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>But I’m a human. And conceding my<br/>
fall,<br/>
My anxiety can’t be restrained:<br/>
It’s getting only stronger.<br/>
And then there’s eagerness to see my<br/>
home,<br/>
Which swallows my heart up with<br/>
anxiety,<br/>
It says relentlessly: whatever you do,<br/>
do quickly.</em>
</p><p><a id="back1" name="back1"></a><a id="back2" name="back2"></a>Alexander Blok<a href="#note3"><sup>3</sup></a></p><p>I do ask him a couple of weeks later. I just can’t withstand this dense flow of someone else’s life which pours on me in this enclosed and uncomfortable space. I <em>cannot</em> withstand his cold and pitiless frankness, which borders on insanity. He narrates all day long— everyday—  and my fingers are calloused and the ink is so ingrained into my skin that no magic can get it off.</p><p>But this is nothing, I need a break and that is <em>not</em> a small thing. I rarely admit to myself that I need to rest. I’m not shying away from work, I just want to do <em>something else</em>. It doesn’t matter what. I’d rather write an article about the deplorable state of the local river. I just can’t allow all these years of other people's memories to pass through me constantly. In order for me to write a worthy piece of text I need to live within it. But I’m getting sick of this. I really am.</p><p>I keep contemplating the things I write. I don't sleep at night because of them, and I am half asleep during the day so that my quill slips down the line from time to time as if I were some careless schoolgirl. Then the Professor pauses for a moment in his endless speech and gives me a disdainful look. He always notices it when I’m distracted, even if it’s for a second. And he doesn’t help me at all.</p><p>What I mean by that is he meticulously reads through everything I have written and carefully leaves his comments in the margins— just like he used to do on the pages of my school essays. And he recites events very coherently— he never asks to go back, never mixes up names and dates, never asks to cross out anything from what was said. But I’m not composing a history textbook here! I pen everything down, but I don’t perceive <em>what</em> I am writing about anymore. He says ‘I was completely desperate’ with the same intonation as ‘I was overjoyed as never before in my life’ and I’m struggling to figure out how to breathe life into the next episode. It’s blind speculation. I need to grope in the dark. But I’m not Severus Snape! Although… I’m not so sure anymore. For the last few days I’ve been living exclusively with Severus Snape on my mind. All this thinking is becoming an occupational hazard to my mental health. I should be receiving <a id="back1" name="back1"></a><a id="back2" name="back2"></a>hazard pay.<a href="#note4"><sup>4</sup></a></p><p>But I buy the milk for my morning beverage myself. I pour it into the same musty-smelling coffee, while I stand in someone else’s kitchen in someone else’s house and it’s another bleak morning. There are no windows in the kitchen but I know that the weather is dreary— there’s no other kind of weather anyway. </p><p>This Spinner’s End is some type of magnetic anomaly— like the Bermuda triangle— it’s always chilly and dark here. I think if it wasn't for the coffee, I’d fall into a hibernation and no story, no matter how entertaining, could force me awake.</p><p>I shudder at the thought of stories. I’m starting to shiver already! That’s a bad sign.</p><p>It's not psychosis yet, but it's definitely neurosis already. But what else did I expect by keeping this much company with Snape? This must be what really killed Voldemort.</p><p>I smirk, unconsciously copying someone, I trudge into the dining room to get another portion of revelations. I already feel uncomfortable. </p><p>Yesterday, or I should say, today— it was past midnight— we finally got to the final break up scene with Lily. So next, logically, I am expecting today we’ll be tackling absolute terror, a little of the macabre, the Dark Lord, and the Death Eaters. </p><p>It looks like I overestimated my strength. Mr Pollard did it as well. If my former teacher starts to talk about how Voldemort dealt with his enemies with the same unfazed look, I will hit him. Don’t think I’m joking here. There will be a scandal and I will need to leave. Or should I just leave now?</p><p>The Professor sits in his usual seat and looks over yesterday’s transcript. I could have rewritten everything and presented him with a clean copy afterwards for a clear-eyed look, should he wish for it. But if he can’t wait, for Merlin’s sake… I was too hasty to talk about the clear-eyed look— the Professor’s gaze is dark as night. I don’t know what he’s thinking about, but it’s easy to imagine him as the very picture of a Death Eater. I have seen enough of them. To be honest, I’d rather skip this chapter. It’s a pity we can’t avoid it.</p><p>But I want to ask him directly first. I sit down in my usual spot, next to the left armrest of the sofa, near the fireplace and say, "Excuse me, sir, but I'd like to know why you agreed to publish a book of memoirs in the first place."</p><p>“A well-timed question,” he remarks without apparent surprise and draws another hieroglyph in the margin of my notes. “Does your interest have anything to do with our work, Miss Granger? You are already asking me a hundred questions a day.”</p><p>There are more than a hundred questions I ask sometimes, and he always answers them thoroughly and in detail. </p><p>Of course, I know where the difference lies— we communicate exclusively within the framework of the book. He narrates, I write, and sometimes ask. That’s all. </p><p>I am already hungering after human companionship— right now it feels as if I were sharing this house with a TV. Or, with a radio receiver, if you can take into account the richness of the Professor’s facial expressions. Sometimes I’m tempted to reciprocate his frankness and tell him all my thoughts on his delivery… Or to talk about some abstract topic. Yes, that would be unprofessional but my professional activity has almost completely consumed my life. I’m not a Quick-Quotes Quill after all! Although I may turn into one soon. But I don’t like it, so I persist.</p><p>“My interest has everything to do with work,” I explain without batting an eye. “I need to write something in the introduction. Something that would convince the reader to read your memoir.”</p><p>The Professor grimaces, tosses the parchment on the table, and turns his unreadable gaze on me.</p><p>“There’s no <em>need</em> for anyone to read it,” he replies with a hint of impatience. “I’m wasting my time with you and this nonsense simply because I have no other choice. If I don't do it myself, someone like Miss Skeeter won't shrink away from doing it herself instead.</p><p>“She wouldn’t do that,” I object without hesitation. “Even Miss Skeeter knows that that’s illegal.”</p><p>“...If I take this matter to a court.”</p><p>“Wouldn’t you?”</p><p>He smirks at my genuine surprise.</p><p>“I most certainly would do, Miss Granger. I would sue <em>you</em> because you’re dallying about instead of, as stated by the agreement, writing down the story of my life. And I would sue <em>your</em> Mr Pollard as well. He swore that he would send me the very best of his authors, but it seems he was obviously being deceptive.”</p><p>But he wasn’t being deceptive. Mr Pollard was flattering me as a means of flattering Snape. I wonder if the Professor really doesn't realize that the others were simply too afraid to approach him. Judging by the look on his face, he figured it out. </p><p>Oh, will this never end? He’s lived such a long life! I nod resignedly and take up my quill, but there is a knock on the door the very same second. <em>A real knock on the door.</em> It’s so unexpected that we both flinch, but the next moment the Professor shrugs his shoulders in annoyance and rises from his seat. I hasten to roll up the scroll— the agreement must be obeyed and no one else is to read a single line.</p><p>The door swings open into the morning grayness of Spinner's End, and Lucius Malfoy in all his glory steps into the living room. He greets the owner of the house and nods to me in acknowledgement, not surprised at all. </p><p>That’s weird. What does he think I’m doing here this early in the morning, in the house of my former teacher, barefoot, wearing a stretched sweater and drinking a cup of coffee? I don’t give a rat’s arse what he thinks. I don’t even nod back to Lucius Malfoy. I get up from the sofa, grab my lukewarm mug and my notes, and make a show of retreating to the kitchen. </p><p>So what. I’m being courteous. They probably need to talk in privacy. And towards the end of our partnership, the Professor himself will tell me everything in detail. With his usual indifference, no doubt.</p><p>I giggle and I don’t know why, and due to the lack of a windowsill I settle down next to the cupboard. I unfold my scroll, lay out a dozen small scraps with individual phrases, and try to turn my draft into a clean copy. I haven’t been able to process the fight at the Lake since before yesterday. I reread several sentences and my heart becomes heavy, so I postpone the correction until the next time. It’s ridiculous, nonsensical laxity on my part— work is work!</p><p>So what if I were called a Mudblood? That was nothing, I survived. But I don’t converse with Malfoys. </p><p>Oh, what <em>beautiful</em> teeth I had grown! All the way down to my waist. How <em>splendidly</em> Harry’s nose was broken on the Hogwarts Express. And what first-class slugs Ron had spat up! Wait, enough about Ron.</p><p>I try to switch off again and escape into other people's memories, but I'm distracted by footsteps on the stairs. </p><p>Oh, lovely! They must be afraid I might be listening, so they've decided to move into the study. They are peculiar people, those Slytherins. No, no— I’m not going to argue here— the Gryffindors <em>do</em> use Extendable Ears sometimes, but only if it’s important. </p><p>But I'm in no way interested in Mr Malfoy right now. I’m so indifferent to him that I delve into my work and don't even think if he's left the house yet or not. I think the Professor will find me himself should he be willing to imitate a radio receiver again. The house isn’t that big, it’s not like he’ll get lost. </p><p>But my coffee had been drunk a long time ago, the ‘Lake Scene,’ Merlin be praised, is rolled into a scroll, still with no sign of clarity.</p><p>I carefully peer into the living room— nobody’s there— then head back to my attic. <em>I try</em> doing it, but I don’t make it. </p><p>I’m accosted by Lucius Malfoy wearing his finest kid gloves which, as it seems, he didn’t take off even here. </p><p>Lucius Malfoy— in his gorgeous blue velvet robes, adorned with expensive silver embroidery. </p><p>Lucius Malfoy— with a diamond clasp at his neck… </p><p>Lucius Malfoy who literally knocks me down while running down the stairs. He turns around, tears the drafts that have fallen from my hands to shreds with a spell, casts a mad look at me and rushes down the stairs. </p><p><em>That’s</em> a Death Eater for you.</p><p>I’m stunned. Not only had he shoved me against the wall, but he also tore the scroll into pieces! Well, at least he didn’t call me a Mudblood. I’m sure he wanted to. No, this is just…</p><p>“You should have stayed in Azkaban!” I yell after him, rushing into the living room with my wand ready.</p><p>He doesn’t hear me, of course. He’s already outside and is about to apparate. </p><p>I’d love to murder him but I’m not one of Voldemort’s lackeys who simply kills everything on sight. Instead, I cover him from head to toe with a thick layer of slime, slam the front door shut, and spell it so that not only can nobody get in, but no one can leave either. </p><p>I'm so enraged that it's only when I get back to the stairs that I remember how dangerous a curse cast at the moment of Apparition can be. Whatever. I’m sure he’ll survive. He’s a Malfoy and Malfoys are nothing if not survivors.</p><p>“Stinking Death Eaters!” I mutter angrily while I climb stairs. Belatedly, I realize that the scraps of parchment no longer cover the steps— Professor Snape meets me on the first-floor landing in grim silence. Ugh, how embarrassing! </p><p>But his guest was something else. It appears that even the Professor’s visitors are out of their minds. </p><p>I head upstairs, still shaking with indignation, while my host calmly looks over the shreds of the scroll in his hands. The problem isn’t so much that Malfoy tore it up, the problem is that everything I had written has disappeared.</p><p>“Shall we start again?” The Professor asks me with annoyance.</p><p>I know that he’s annoyed even though his speech still flows smoothly, like a river under ice.</p><p>“No need,” I answer, still feeling stupid. “I copy everything I write. I’ll just need a couple days, at most, to restore the last bit.”</p><p>I don’t feel I need to explain that I resent the disrespectful attitude toward my work. What is unclear to me is why the Professor is so demanding about deadlines. I, of course, want to finish the job quickly and get out of this captivity… from this cobweb that is Spinner’s End. But why is he in such a rush? If I were him I’d want to go out more, brew potions against the cold. But he doesn’t even go out for a walk. It’s as if he’s guarding me. And somehow he didn’t care a bit that Mr Malfoy almost threw me down the stairs. As if that's the way it should be.</p><p>“Well, your friend is a psycho, Professor!” I add with sharpness. “Excuse my brevity.”</p><p>He glances up at me quickly, and I think for a second that I have <em>earned</em> a few curt words that have to nothing to do with our work. Something along the lines of “He’s not my friend,” or “Why don’t you go… to the attic?”</p><p>"Brevity can be used as <a id="back1" name="back1"></a><a id="back2" name="back2"></a>a litmus test<a href="#note5"><sup>5</sup></a> for the Gryffindors," the Professor says resignedly. "And Lucius has gotten rather <em>jumpy</em> after Azkaban. I hope you didn't do anything irreparable to him? </p><p>He cares about the health of his precious Lucius, of course.</p><p>“Nothing worthy of repairing,” I say. “I killed him with an Avada and then cremated the body with <em>Incendio.</em>”</p><p>“You are rather bloodthirsty, Miss Granger,” the Professor furrows his brow. “In that case, let us proceed with our work. There’s no one to bother us now.”</p><p>He heads for his office without sparing a glance back, and I become wary. What if he was seriously offended by the ‘Stinking Death Eaters’ comment? Or by my joke about casting an Avada— I hope he did get that it was only a joke? And why aren’t we returning to the living room? Well, Gryffindors are anything but cowards, so I have no hesitation as I walk into his study. </p><p>It’s a mess here, too. One of the tables is overturned and vials are smashed. There’s a broken glass underfoot, but the Professor collects it quickly with the help of his wand.</p><p>“So what did he want?” I ask with legitimate interest. Mr Malfoy <em>did</em> attack me and destroyed my notes, and I have the right to know why. But Mr Snape doesn’t agree and pretends not to have heard my question.</p><p>“You may sit at that table, there is more light. It will be more convenient to write there,” he informs, indicating the direction with a nod of his head.</p><p>He has a focused look. His lips are pursed, as if he is seriously considering something. Or he’s angry. Or trying to restrain himself and not kick me out, like he did with Malfoy. It would be a shame— my work is still far from complete.</p><p>“I don’t understand why you bother going to the trouble.” I can't restrain my temper. “You could have done just fine without me!”</p><p>“No doubt,” he turns away from me and starts looking for something on his shelves. “I am somewhat literate and am able to string a sentence together. But I can finish this work much sooner with your help.”</p><p>That ‘sooner’ again! I sit down where I’m told to, but I express my disapproval of his attitude with my body language. I deliberately push another tripod aside with my elbow so that the vials in it emit a warning ring.</p><p>“Mr Malfoy found out that a book of my memoirs is being prepared for publication, and he stopped by to request I not reveal any undue information about him,” the Professor says dispassionately. “He barely managed to buy his way out of Azkaban, and he's afraid of new... complications. Are you comfortable there?”</p><p>I nod. He offhandedly mentioned Malfoy ‘buying his way out’ without me coaxing him. I wonder what his unexpected guest did to make him this angry. </p><p>True, it was already clear to everyone that the Malfoys came out of the war smelling like roses, and it was certainly not by magic. Malfoys are Malfoys— keeping up appearances will always be of paramount importance to them. And yet, I predict it will be a long time before they aren’t held under general suspicion.</p><p>Ruminating, I unfold the blank parchment with deliberate slowness, open the inkwell, and arrange the blotting paper and quills.</p><p>“And what did you tell him, sir?” I mirror his deadpan delivery. Well, I almost manage to. No one can keep up with Professor Snape. </p><p>He sits down at the edge of the table next to me and looks at me with an odd grin. Again I am reminded of the ill-fated scene at the Lake, which I’ll need to re-read again. I no longer doubt— he is absolutely furious. I want to move away from him a little but then I may bring down the aquarium filled with live frogs, and the frogs are innocent.</p><p>“Write it down,” the Professor says with gentleness in his voice. “The next chapter will be titled <em>Lucius</em>.’”</p><p>I sigh wearily and begin to write, knowing in advance that this will be a Sisyphean task. Mr Pollard will never, under any circumstances, allow this to be published. Malfoys aren't nearly as influential as they used to be, but they still won’t hesitate to drag our poor editorial staff through the courts. Miss Skeeter would take note. Law is law. </p><p>Of course, Professor Snape would see his share of trouble first. But that’s none of my concern. My career, obviously, would suffer and the book wouldn’t get published. But I could still, with the Professor's permission, pass around handwritten copies— during the war, this was common practice in Dumbledore's Army. So, should Mr Snape decide in earnest to put his former mate behind bars, it would be a piece of cake to leak a scandal to the press. I’m game.</p><p>While I record all the dark magical sins of the former Head of the Hogwarts Board of Governors with an utmost scrupulosity, the Professor sets up a small cauldron on the fire, pours this, adds that and the other afterwards, and at the same time continues to narrate the chapter in a measured manner, without slipping or pausing even once. Years of lecturing, and especially reporting to Voldemort and Professor Dumbledore, had clearly not been wasted on him.</p><p>His narration ends with today's occurrences and at the same time the Professor carefully pours the newly prepared powder into a jar. He comes to me, shakes some of the powder into his palm, and blows it on the parchment while the ink is still wet. The letters disappear. </p><p>I'm speechless. For the second time in one day. What the...?! Are they making fun of me?!</p><p>“Write at the bottom: ‘This chapter will be published after the death of Lucius Malfoy.’” </p><p>The Professor cautiously wipes the lid of the jar and levitates it into one of the cabinets crammed into the corners. The space in those cabinets is probably expanded to the limit, but the doors still barely close. Why wouldn’t he expand his study a bit? Or add a normal guest room? </p><p>Why do I ask those rhetorical questions, anyway?</p><p>“And then the letters will reappear again?” I surmise, trying to hide my admiration.</p><p>“You are quick on the uptake, Miss Granger. So why were you so sleepy during those six years you were my student in Hogwarts?” the Professor wonders and adds with his most neutral tone, “We can return to the living room now. Let us continue our work in a more familiar environment.</p><p>Let’s… continue. Let me return to my senses first! By the way, during my six years at Hogwarts, I hung upon his every word. And I stretched my hand in every lesson. And I handed in tasks before anyone else did. </p><p>Of course, I understand what caused his, to put it mildly, biased attitude towards me, but that does not justify his actions at all. I’m willing to bet on my front teeth that I’d have never finished Hogwarts with distinction if he were to stay there to teach. And yes, I still feel bitter about it. I despise injustice. This is <em>my</em> litmus paper. </p><p>And his teacher’s pet Draco turned out to be a little, mean snake. Just like his daddy. So he shouldn’t scoff at me— he can take his contempt elsewhere.</p><p>“Should I lock you in here, Miss Granger?” the Professor asks, puzzled. “What are you thinking about so intently that you aren’t able to walk to the living room?"</p><p>"You, sir," I say, rising from my chair.</p><p>What else can I think about when my impressions are so limited here? But for some reason, he is surprised.</p><p>“And, what do you think about me?” the Professor asks, narrowing his eyes. He's leaning against the doorframe, his right arm holding his left forearm, and I can't get past him into the corridor.</p><p>“Based on fresh impressions or from everything I have managed to learn?” I ask, rolling up the pristine parchment.</p><p>“Based on whatever prevents you from doing your work.”</p><p>I shrug.</p><p>“Nothing prevents me from doing the work. I have optimal conditions here. It’s just that it would be much easier to communicate with you if you acted a bit more human. But it definitely helps me to understand everyone who hated you.”</p><p>“Yes,” he agrees with the utmost seriousness. “An <em>Acceptable</em> in the Defence Against the Dark Arts is a <em>serious reason</em> for hatred. But we'll get to those dark pages of my biography later. And to those pages which are even darker. Provided you don't leave my house. Right now.”</p><p>He’s not joking, I understand that. What I don't understand is why such a small thing as my <em>Acceptable</em> rubbed him in such a wrong way. Should I just silently swallow his taunts, which he tosses left and right with or without any provocation? Are we having a DADA lesson here?</p><p>“No, sir, I won’t leave until the book is finished,” I assure him with my most polite tone. “I just expressed my feelings about your rudeness. But your memories should certainly be written down and published. If you were really interested in my opinion, I would say that your life hasn’t been the best, but you dealt with it as well as you could.”</p><p>“Hasn't been the best?” he asks slyly. “‘As well as I could’, you say? <em>As you say</em>. Wait for me downstairs,” and he slams the door in my face.</p><p>Oh, Merlin! Isn’t he afraid that I will steal his Boomslang skin? Or that powder over there which helps to conceal text for a time? I’m pretty sure that he has invented it himself. I heave a sigh. And yet, what a first-rate wizard he is! I would love to hear him lecture on how to make such things. And these are not some Wizard Wheezes— this is magic of the highest order— difficult and time consuming.</p><p>Why doesn’t he patent and sell his inventions? As far as I know, he was interested in fame and recognition before. His desire for the title of Professor of Defence Against the Dark Arts. Or the Order of Merlin he hoped to acquire by throwing Mr Black into prison (though, <em>not only</em> because he wanted that Order of Merlin, as I now know). Was it the war which affected him thus? It’s so complicated with him. He’s simply intolerable. I just <em>can’t.</em></p><p>After standing for a while in front of the slammed door, I drag myself wearily into the living room and am surprised to find that there is no one there. I unfold my parchment yet again, and, yet again, put down my inkwell… and freeze not knowing how to react. </p><p>I can’t find words. </p><p>It’s great that words will be dictated to me and I’ll just need to write them down. No, Lucius Malfoy is perfectly sound. Severus Snape, on the other hand, has definitely lost his senses. He was imprisoned in Azkaban as well, after all, even if it was a long time ago; and this is the result… I’m getting a bit scared— we are alone, in a half-abandoned house, in a completely abandoned part of the city. And Professor Snape, as I just remembered, is a very powerful wizard.</p><p>Right now, he’s not the Professor, as it seems. He’s wearing a black, heavy cloak— it’s probably good that it’s not particularly hot in the living room— and he's donned a white mask, which covers his face. He even lifted the hood over his face for a good measure. It’s pretty impressive, I admit… if his idiotic goal is to impress me. To no avail— I have seen enough of it. My stomach clenches up in knots and a phantom <em>Crucio</em> pain passes through my nerves, but I’ll be fine. We will continue to work. If the Professor feels more comfortable this way… getting into character. I just hope he doesn’t get too carried away with it, though.</p><p>“Where should we start?” I ask cheerfully.</p><p>Does this mean that after all my efforts today there <em>will</em> be a penned down line or two? </p><p>The Professor sits there, unmoving, his hands on the armrest, and is silent so long that I begin to wonder if he has fallen asleep under that mask. This trick wouldn’t have worked with Voldemort but I, of course, don’t see anything behind that thing!</p><p>“We will start with my acquisition of the Dark Mark,” he finally replies, giving me chills.</p><p>He really knows how to piss me off! Slytherins are something <em>else</em>. And Professor Snape outdoes Salazar Slytherin by a mile.</p><p>“Would you like to show it to me? For the sake of establishing the complete effect,” I offer, barely holding back.</p><p>“No,” he says abruptly. “There’s nothing to see there now.”</p><p>That’s strange. He usually doesn’t hide anything. And I’ve somehow gotten used to having his absolute trust. But he’s lying. There’s definitely something to see there! How is it he still has his mask but no longer has a Dark Mark? Why did everybody in Azkaban still have their Marks? But I don’t press. I understand that after such a stressful life as his, various mental illnesses are a distinct possibility. This is just too much, though— dressing up as a Death Eater in front of his former student! But it won’t do spelling him with slime. After all, he <em>did</em> provide me with an excellent education for several years. And the Order of Merlin is rightfully his.</p><p>That's why I bite my lip and start writing, even though I feel like I'm at a Death Eater meeting. What if that’s what he wants— for me to feel it crawling over my skin? So that everyone who will read his book will also feel it? He doesn't do anything accidentally. You can’t ask him a direct question. He's a very, very strange kind of man. Strange, dark, and frightening. As a Death Eater should be... or someone who pretends to be a Death Eater. I don't know about Voldemort, but I’d be sold on it. Forget that! Everyone <em>was</em> sold. Absolutely everyone.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p><a id="note3" name="note3"></a><sup>3</sup>Translator’s note: <strong>Alexander Alexandrovich Blok</strong> (Алекса́ндр Алекса́ндрович Бло́к, 28 November 1880 – 7 August 1921) was a Russian lyrical poet, writer, publicist, playwright, translator, literary critic. He’s considered to be one of the classics of the Russian literature as well. The fragment of the poem you see here “What Now? The Weak Hands Are Wringed Aweary…” (Ну, что же? Устало заломлены слабые руки…) is translated by us. We couldn’t find any official translation, so, please bear with us. Should anybody have better suggestions of how to translate this, please let us know.</p><p><a id="note4" name="note4"></a><sup>4</sup>Translator’s note:  <strong>”I should be receiving hazard pay.”</strong> In Russian, Hermione says ‘They need to give me free milk’ (Мне должны давать бесплатное молоко). This alludes to the Russian expression ‘молоко за вредность’. The word ‘вредность’ in Russian means both ‘a health hazard’ and ‘spite’. According to Wikipedia it’s mandatory to give milk to the workers who work in hazardous conditions in Russia as it’s mostly believed to help against the toxins. Thus, the Russian expression ‘Молоко за вредность’ can be translated as ‘to give milk due to a health hazard’ and ‘to give milk for being spiteful’.</p><p><a id="note5" name="note5"></a><sup>5</sup>Translator’s note: <strong>Litmus test</strong> has two meanings. 1) It’s a test for chemical acidity or basicity using litmus paper. 2) A test that uses a single indicator to prompt a decision: "The word 'hopefully' has become the litmus test to determine whether one is a language snob or a language slob" (William Safire, from https://www.thefreedictionary.com)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. The Servant of the Dark Lord</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>Be afraid of silent people,<br/>
Be afraid of houses old,<br/>
Be afraid of the tormenting power<br/>
Of words untold,<br/>
Live, live— I’m scared— live sooner.</em>
</p><p><a id="back1" name="back1"></a><a id="back2" name="back2"></a>Konstantin Balmont<a href="#note6"><sup>6</sup></a></p><p> </p><p>One fine day, just as I feared, I lose my patience. I throw down my quill mid-sentence, and angrily utter, “Just remove that abomination already!”</p><p>I understand that using my wand would be better, but that would only give him an excuse to take up his wand, making my goal most certainly achievable. And so, I walk up to the Professor on impulse, hoping that I will manage without magic. But, how? That’s a good question. A mental attack won’t work on him— he wouldn’t even budge. Yeah, right! I’m not half as horrifying as Voldemort,  although I've never been called a beauty. I can look pretty sometimes if the light is right but… yeah, that is neither here nor there.</p><p>I stop in front of him and look at him expectantly, hoping he will finally cease with his aggravating masquerade. But this is Severus Snape, who could measure up to all the Marauders' misdeeds at once. Our best spy. The pride of the Order of the Phoenix and of all Magical Britain. He doesn't waver. He won’t surrender to this feeble girl. We're just having a staring contest. </p><p>A minute, two, three... Well, <em>fine</em> then. I take another step closer. But all I can see is blackness in the slits of the mask.</p><p>“Don’t even think about touching me,” he warns very quietly.</p><p>It immediately becomes clear that he will not dictate a single line more. I can't stand this mockery any longer. And since there is nothing to lose…</p><p>“I’m not going to touch you,” I say with almost no fear. And I really only touch the mask, trying not to even brush against his hair— I don’t think he would like it.</p><p>I touch it and I realize what a fool I am. My impulse dies and a confused ‘What's next?’ pops into my head. I don’t even feel this <em>thing</em> with my fingers. But I didn’t even give a thought that the Professor would fight my actions. I don’t know what I was thinking. I <em>didn’t think</em>. Otherwise, I would have surmised that a Death Eater's mask is a clever creation of Dark Magic, and not some carnival curio with elastic bands. I didn’t think about it. Me... the Know-It-All! I’m lucky I didn’t burn my hands or drop dead. But how should I have known of such subtleties? </p><p>I feel my cheeks burning, and yet I can barely contain my laughter because I must look ridiculous. I can’t just stand here all day long until evening.</p><p>The Professor clutches the armrests with his hands until his nails turn white, and makes an impatient, sharp movement of his head. This is the signal for me to back away. I involuntarily withdraw my hands, and the mask remains in my palms. Can it always be removed so easily, or did he allow me to take it off? I can’t find a clasp, but I’m more interested in the expression on his face. Very, very closely I see his irregular features and his dark, never-smiling eyes— it seems as if no light can reach their depths. Why is he so pale? Whiter than the mask. Out of rage? I can’t really say for sure. He remains so still and his face is emotionless— so much so that I want to repeat my actions again— to remove this <em>other mask</em> as well. But this one won’t come off as easily. And who am I to pry into his soul? I have this unexpected desire to touch him. To touch his hair, his face, to make sure he's really living and warm. Because I’m scared.</p><p>“And what did you expect to see there?” he asks coldly, banishing my sudden obsession.</p><p>“You, sir,” I shrug, stepping away from him, and throwing the mask into the fire— just because I can’t think of a better place to put it. There's a crack, this <em>thing</em> turns black and breaks into halves, and the living room is instantly covered in black smoke. No comment.</p><p>The Professor chuckles dryly and takes his wand out of his pocket to clear the air.</p><p>“Ah, to be young,” he says with some nostalgia as I try to open the window, choking on my cough.</p><p>I’d rather use my wand as well but I don’t have time to search for it on the sofa. I manage to pry open the swollen window frames, and the rotten odour from the river quickly overpowers the smell of burning. I see a movement out of the corner of my eye and half lean out of the window, but the street is empty. As always. I thought I saw my own striped Gryffindor scarf... I was definitely imagining it.</p><p>By the time I close the window, the Professor has already dispelled the remnants of the smoke, and the mask lies completely crumpled and sunken into the ashes. The worst part is, I know he can conjure up a new mask at any moment.</p><p>“Have you caught your breath?” he asks me. “Are you ready to finally do some real work here or should I have them find me somebody more diligent and stable-tempered?”</p><p>Who would stand all of this? They barely managed to find me! I nod, close the window, and return to the sofa. I tuck my feet under myself because the floor is icy cold now, and dip my quill in the inkwell. Then again. And again. </p><p>The Professor doesn't dictate anything. He doesn't even look at me. I can't guess what he's looking at— something beyond these walls and this time? I feel awful. I shouldn't have touched his mask. I shouldn't have touched <em>him</em>. Should I leave?</p><p>“All right, so be it,” he says, collecting his thoughts, and pulling back his hair with all five fingers. I've never seen this casual, non-professorial gesture from him before. The next second, he snaps back to reality and fixes his eyes upon me with his usual gaze— hard and unreadable.</p><p>“Where did we leave off?” he asks, nodding at the direction of my notes, but grabs the lost thread of thought before I can answer. “Oh, yes, Charity Burbage... Write it down.”</p><p>And so I write.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>* * *</p>
</div>After the incident with the mask the Professor doesn’t talk with me for several days. I try to apologize but he stubbornly locks himself in his rooms. I just don’t know what to think. Are we going to continue working or should I pack my things? He’s being so childish. <em>To be young, indeed!</em> The only thing I manage to achieve is to wheedle some books from his library so that I can read something else besides my own notes. With gritted teeth he allows me access to this inner sanctum of his, but makes me swear that I won't mark the pages with dog-ears or put any notes in the margins. In all seriousness, this oath is almost the equivalent to an Unbreakable Vow! If I were to stain a page with coffee, he would kill me. Oh Merlin, who do I live with?<p>For three days I lie in my attic, carefully sipping my coffee and lazily perfecting Transfiguration from the books I had acquired with great pains. I don’t mark anything— I carefully copy anything that's interesting on a separate piece of paper. Until I realize I can't write anymore. If I keep going I'll have spasms in my hand due to the writing. I can say farewell to my profession then. </p><p>I spend half the day staring at the rafters and at the snow and rain that falls outside the small attic window. I think about Ron, but that’s a dangerous pastime. So my mind drifts to Victor— I urgently need to do something. I think about Snape— it's definitely time to get up.</p><p>As always, when my mind is a mess — whether from overwork or idleness— I am drawn to putting order to the mess around me. Fortunately, the ground is fertile for it. Not exactly my ground, of course. But since I'm staying here for the indefinite future... The bookshelves were very dusty, in my opinion. And the window of my ‘residential suite’ is so murky that it’s unclear whether it's raining or snowing outside. With a magic wand, you could clean up the house in one day. But I’m stretching the pleasure to two.</p><p>I clean the attic first. As I have recently learned, Peter Pettigrew lived here before me, and he's not the kind of person I want to have anything in common with. To begin with, I paint the chimney like a tree trunk, disguise the beams as branches, and draw leaves around them. I'm not much of an artist, but the Professor’s <a id="back1" name="back1"></a><a id="back2" name="back2"></a>jaw will drop<a href="#note7"><sup>7</sup></a>. Still, he never comes up to the attic, and, in general, he doesn't care much at all. But just in case, I could always quickly wash everything off. After that, I hang up the curtains and scrub the floors— first with cleaning charms, and then with a brush, like a Muggle. It's cleaner this way.</p><p>The owner of the house stubbornly refuses to appear, so the next day I clean the stairs and the living room. The stairs are easy to do, but the bookshelves are much trickier. The first row of priceless magical literature is followed by another row, and then a third one— the books are priceless in that no normal person would buy them. It seems that the situation with these bookcases is similar to the one in his study— you can’t get to the bottom of it. I won’t manage to deal with all this in one day. Especially because some folios will not agree to be wiped with a cloth. Some fight back and try to bite my fingers. Others, unaccustomed to the light, fearfully huddle in the farthest corners. I have to climb waist-deep into the closet to bring things into order.</p><p>“Don't let your hand get bitten off. Or your head.”</p><p>I'm so startled that I flinch and hit the back of my head against the bookshelf, and the spiteful handbook on Defense Against Vampires hits me square on the nose with its silver clasp. I almost fall down because I’m already standing on the back of a chair, but I manage to keep my balance. I cast <em>Petrificus Totalus</em> on the baleful tome and carefully straighten up, rubbing my bruised nose. The Professor looks with disapproval at the clean windows, the scrubbed upholstery of the furniture, and the repaired table leg. I'm sure he notices everything. And he doesn't like it at all.</p><p>“Hello, sir,” I say as gently as possible. “I decided to tidy up and put some things in order in honour of the first day of spring. It’s very grim here otherwise.”</p><p>He, himself, is the most grim thing here. Well, at least he didn’t put on a mask this time. </p><p>I know he hates this house. He won’t say it directly, of course, but I don’t think I’m mistaken. But leaving the house to its own devices won’t make things any better. So why is he staring daggers at me? I didn’t throw anything out!</p><p>“Don’t bother establishing your order here. I don’t need a house elf,” he explains to me as if I were dense. “And get off the closet.”</p><p>What did I expect? Gratitude?</p><p>As I get down from the chair and levitate it back to its original place, the Professor stares through the clean window down at the street below. Judging by his facial expression, I wouldn’t put it past him to go outside and smear mud back on the window again. But he bravely holds back.</p><p>“Do you have parchment and quill with you?” he asks and sits down on the chair as if nothing has happened.</p><p>“Always,” I answer with restraint and summon our dusty work from the mantelpiece. Everything is as it should be — there’s a sofa, a table, and a fire in the fireplace. True, it’s no longer winter outside, but spring, but who cares?</p><p>With a wave of his wand, the Professor draws the curtains shut so that the sun does not shine into his eyes, and frowns, ruminating over how to continue his story. I think that he has lost even more weight since hiding in his room and getting angry. The robe he’s wearing was loose before but now it looks like it could be wrapped twice around him. It’s strange— one would think that he, being an adult, would understand that he needs to eat sometimes. And go out into the fresh air.</p><p>“Do you want me to make us some dinner?” I offer as a suggestion of good will.</p><p>I don't even cook for myself, I‘m fine with the food I get from the canteen— a girl needs to keep her figure. And, to be honest, there are not many things I can cook well. But I can cook <em>something</em>. A soup, for example. Or I can make an oven-baked chicken. Well, if I’m not allowed to clean here…</p><p>I recollect the state of the oven here, but the Professor looks at me as though I'm mad, so I catch myself, blow the dust off the parchment, and pick up my quill.</p><p>It’s not my concern. If he wants to nourish himself with nothing but his strengthening potions, that’s his business. But, honestly, he will exhaust himself with his all-consuming faith in magic.</p><p>It’s not for me to teach him, I know. The Professor trusts me like nobody else, but only because I’m his biographer, and I don’t confuse  <a id="back1" name="back1"></a><a id="back2" name="back2"></a>chalk and cheese!<a href="#note8"><sup>8</sup></a> Although, putting my modesty aside, I can make pretty good scrambled eggs with cheese. But he wouldn’t be interested. He's not interested in anything at all. I almost feel sorry for him. Almost. I almost fear for him. And I’m about to suggest we postpone the new chapter until later and ask if he’s feeling ill, but the Professor has collected his thoughts.</p><p>“The death of Albus Dumbledore began long before I ended him with the Killing Curse,” he starts tiredly, and I don’t have the nerve to interrupt him.</p><p>I <em>would like</em> to interrupt him and offer him some coffee. Or tea. And bake that chicken. And I would like to say ‘To hell with this agonizing book of memories!’ And to remind him that he doesn’t <em>have</em> do anything and that he should take a break. And I don’t think he just needs a break. He needs to take a vacation. A really long one. </p><p>But it’s really important to the Professor that he tells me everything. Or, he pretends that it’s important. Maybe it’s like the Spring cleaning for me— just another way to avoid thinking about… what? What of those things he’s confessed to me is the one he doesn’t want to think of? And why am I thinking about it more and more? The Professor locks his fingers together and, squinting at the fire, offers me one possible answer. </p><p>“And then I asked him what would become of my soul. He replied that only I would know. Unfortunately, I still don’t. Not yet.”</p><p>His speech sounds even more smooth than in class, but I already know from what lessons he draws this frightening self-control. His eyes express nothing. His calmness does not mean anything. And it's impossible to break through his shields. I can only observe him by my given right as his chronicler, and my heart sinks at the thought that the book is coming to an end— which means that I will soon be deprived of even this tiny privilege. I don't yet understand what drives me to such despondency, but I feel that I'm no longer in a hurry to escape from the house he so reluctantly let me into. Even though it’s cold and unfriendly. </p><p>I mean the house, of course.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p><a id="note6" name="note6"></a><sup>6</sup>Translator’s note:<strong>Konstantin Dmitriyevich Balmont</strong> (Константи́н Дми́триевич Бальмо́нт, 15 June 1867 – 23 December 1942) was a Russian symbolist poet and translator. He (along with Alexander Blok, Marina Tsvetaeva and Anna Akhmatova, who’s fragment of a poem you’ll read in a later chapter) was one of the major figures of the Silver Age of the Russian Poetry. The fragment you can read here is from his poem “The Old House” (Старый дом). D.C. didn’t find any official translation of this poem on the internet (and, unfortunately, D.C's library does not have necessary resources in English/Russian), so this is our translation. If there are some literary critics/other translators here— Mea culpa, mea maxima culpa! (Or is it ‘Nos maxima culpae?’) We are open to your suggestions, of course.<br/></p><p><a id="note7" name="note7"></a><sup>7</sup>Translator’s note: <strong>“...Professor’s jaw will drop.”</strong> In Russian the author says “I’m not much of an artist, but the Professor will drop down anyway.” (Я так себе художник, но профессор всё равно упадёт.) In Russian you can drop your whole body down from a shock, not only your jaw. ;)<br/></p><p><a id="note8" name="note8"></a><sup>8</sup>Translator’s Note: <strong>“...don’t confuse chalk and cheese!”</strong>The Russian expression used here is ‘Путать божий дар с яичницей’ which literally translated means ‘to confuse up God’s gift with scrambled eggs’ and has a similar meaning as ‘don’t mix up apples with oranges’ or ‘to confuse chalk and cheese’ in English.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. The Tenant of Spinner's End</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>
  <strong>Translators' note: This chapter has been slightly edited on 19 February 2021. Some sentences were paraphrased to improve the readability of the text.</strong>
</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <a id="back1" name="back1"></a>
  <a id="back2" name="back2"></a>
  <em>My friend! A tenderness suppressed—<br/>it suffocates.<br/>Love me just a farthing more— I’ll accept it all!<br/>My indifferent friend! It’s so terrifying<br/>to listen to<br/>The dark midnight in the empty house!</em>
  <a href="#note9">
    <sup>9</sup>
  </a>
</p>
<p>Marina Tsvetaeva</p>
<p>There is <em>definitely</em> something wrong with this house. Or with my head, which would not be surprising. I am thankful that Professor Snape, having finished with the battle in the Astronomy Tower, has led us away from the dark side of his life for the time being. Now we mainly focus on his time in school. I’ll somehow meaningfully interweave one with the other later on— I will need a day or two— but, for now, I quietly enjoy a mental rest.</p>
<p>If he weren’t so sombre, I could have added my own memories to several episodes, but my memories have nothing to do with his. He already knows about most of the obscure moments of my life, or he has guessed about them. And some things are better left unknown. What difference would it make now for him to know who set fire to his robes during the Quidditch match? That was a thousand years ago. For the sake of clarity I calculate more precisely— it was nine years ago. </p>
<p><em>Only</em> nine? We both remember that incident very clearly. That, and a hundred other incidents, too, intersecting and complementing each other. It makes my work relatively easy in the daytime.</p>
<p>It’s different at night. For a couple of days, until late in the evening, I edit the nightmarish episodes he has told me about, and as a result I stop sleeping again from the excess of impressions. It was all too recent, too directly related to me, Ron, Harry… all of us. I have a hard time perceiving what I am doing as just work. </p>
<p>I understand that all this should live in the memory of future generations, I’m aware of the significance of my task, and I’m even ready to admit that the Professor does not enjoy this any more than I do. But reasoning doesn't really help. They say don't trouble troubles until troubles trouble you! But we have troubled them, and now I just can’t seem to relax.</p>
<p>I lie down, then get up and wander from corner to corner in my attic. Every small sound startles me. I’m not afraid of ghosts— I’m afraid that Voldemort’s giant snake will slither through the dormer or Voldemort himself will silently enter the house like he did at Harry’s parents’ house. </p>
<p>I’m not a coward and I know that all of this is nonsense. But <em>you</em> try running from Voldemort the way <em>I</em> did, and I bet you wouldn’t want to be constantly reminded of it by someone <em>very sombre</em> with <em>very dark eyes</em>, and clad in <em>very dark clothes</em>… in a half-dark room of a half-rotten house, behind an abandoned mill. Brr! I don’t want to sleep in the attic anymore. But I won’t be running to the Professor’s side for fear that he’ll start telling me some of his stories again!</p>
<p>Having slept for no more than a couple of hours, I walk down early to prepare my ritual cup of coffee. I climb back up the stairs, still half asleep, rethinking the chapter about the Astronomy Tower so that I can finally put an end to that whole nightmare. I remember Professor Dumbledore’s funeral and my eyes flood with tears. The tears make my vision fuzzy, and I don’t pay attention to what I'm looking at. And at that moment I notice movement behind the open attic door. I drop my mug in surprise and hot coffee splashes on my legs, but it doesn’t matter. I’m convinced that.... What did I just see?</p>
<p>I jump over the shards scattered on the steps, climb into the attic, and, of course, no one is there. I know that I’m not alone in this house, but if it was Professor Snape, where did he hide and why? And besides, I'm sure I saw my scarf again! I mean, I'm <em>almost</em> sure. How can you be <em>completely</em> sure if there’s not a single soul around?</p>
<p>I stand and look around dumbfounded in the semi-darkness, under the crown of the tree I painted. I even take out my wand and say <em>Finite Incantatem</em>, although I perfectly understand that the child, magical or not, cannot just disappear <em>like that</em>. This is no longer magic— this is a mystery. But just in case, I walk around the perimeter of the room and, feeling like a complete idiot, call out several times:</p>
<p>“Kid! Where did you hide? Come out— I won't get angry with you. Do you want some scrambled eggs?”</p>
<p>I’ve either gone bonkers or the local ghosts are indifferent to scrambled eggs. I check the narrow window but it doesn’t even open. He didn’t just walk through the walls, did he? Should I talk to the owner of the house? It wouldn’t surprise me at all to learn that he had taken in some nephew of his to live in the cupboard under the stairs and didn’t consider it necessary to introduce us.</p>
<p><em>What am I talking about?</em> What nephews of the Professor? Luna would have just thrown in the towel. She’d say that it’s just Wrackspurts in the springtime playing pranks— what  else can you expect of them? Professor Trelawney would have taken this as a sign of an imminent and painful death. I don’t want to even imagine what Professor Snape would say about my hallucinations. </p>
<p>But my own rational mind requires a clear explanation. I've had too much coffee, of course, and have read too many ‘horror stories’ at night, but if a child falls off some rotten beam or slips off the wet roof…</p>
<p>In my confusion, I look up at the ceiling and finally find what I seek among the foliage. It’s gratifying to know that I haven’t lost my mind completely. There’s a trap-door to the roof. There are no stairs nearby and I have no idea how a boy who, judging by his frame is not very strong, could have climbed up there. But shouldn’t I know better what boys are capable of?</p>
<p>I decide to act quickly. I run back to the kitchen. There in a corner, if I remember it correctly, next to a scrub brush lies a broom. An old one, but still suitable for flying. I grab the broom and rush back, as if my Ghost might run out of patience. The broom handle has ‘Nimbus’ carved on it with a knife, although it's actually from a much more modest brand. But this ‘pseudo-Nimbus’ rises quite confidently into the air. Even a small child could do this. It gets trickier, though. When I get to the trap-door, I hold on to a branch— I mean, to a ceiling beam— with one hand, and try to pull the bolt back with the other. The bolt won't budge, and I'm intrigued.</p>
<p>I can use <em>Alohomora</em>, of course, if the Professor hasn't put some overly complicated spells on all the entrances and exits. But a child who has not yet mastered a wand won’t be able to cast the unlocking spell. And the bolt looks very old and rusty. I don't think it's been touched in years. For the purity of the experiment, I try to push it back with both hands, and at this moment I again notice movement below. I'm smart enough not to scream, but I flinch so hard that I lose my balance and don't have time to grab the broom. </p>
<p>Flying has never been my thing.</p>
<p>Luckily, the Professor manages to catch me. Not with his hands, of course, but by magic.</p>
<p>He stops my fall at the level of the lower branches, turns me over with <em>Liberacorpus</em>, and I land on my feet. I can't keep my feet, though, and fall again. The Professor hisses something through his teeth, lifts me up by my armpits, and observes me closely. This will be his finest hour. Come on, sir, get started. Don’t hold back!</p>
<p>“Every time I walk in, you are falling from somewhere, Miss Granger.”</p>
<p>Not every time, but I remain silent.</p>
<p>“And you made a mess of the stairway again.”</p>
<p>I keep my mouth shut.</p>
<p>“A tree. That is rather… unexpected,” he adds, raising his head.</p>
<p>I think I will hold my tongue just a bit more. </p>
<p>“And why are you flying around my house on a broom?”</p>
<p>Well, enough with silence.</p>
<p>“Is this your broom, Professor?” I ask peeved.</p>
<p>He squints at the broom hovering under the beams.</p>
<p>“It might be.”</p>
<p>“Do you have another one? I mean, was your broom ever stolen?”</p>
<p>“If only by you.”</p>
<p>Why is he lying to me? He still isn’t using a model from 1972 for flying, is he? I take a closer look at the Professor, but I don't see the Gryffindor scarf. Only the invariably black robe. If his robes differ in any way, I don’t notice. Meanwhile, a hint of concern appears in the eyes of my interrogator.</p>
<p>“Miss Granger,” he says softly. “I rarely need to fly. And I don't need a broom for that.”</p>
<p>Oh yes, how could I forget? But even Tom Riddle couldn’t pull such stunts before entering Hogwarts. Such tricks reek of Azkaban, and if I were the Professor, I would brag less. And if I were me, I’d be better at thinking. </p>
<p>I know I'm talking complete nonsense, but I'd rather have some explanation than none at all.</p>
<p>“The thing is, sir, it’s not the first time I’ve seen someone else here.”</p>
<p>“Not me by any chance?” he's about to take up his wand, as a witch gone mad is a dangerous thing.</p>
<p>“No, sir, not you,”  I say, shaking my head to clear it. “Before I came to you, I couldn't find the right house, and there was no one to ask for directions. And then I came across a boy who told me how to find Spinner’s End…”</p>
<p>The professor raises his eyebrows in slight surprise, and I politely correct myself: “Spinner’s Street. Then I saw the same child again through the window— here, at the dead end. I’m <em>almost</em> sure I did! But that’s not everything. He said that he lives on this street with his parents...”</p>
<p>“I understand. You met the same boy in the attic,” the Professor sighs tiredly.</p>
<p>I can’t tell whether it is his habit of being unfazed, or if he's really not particularly surprised. Or does he know <em>something</em>?</p>
<p>“And why are you here all of a sudden?” his presence dawning on me.</p>
<p>He is silent for a long moment, but still answers, albeit with obvious reluctance: “You were rushing up and down the stairs so frantically that I thought you were on fire. But things turned out to be much more <em>interesting.</em>”</p>
<p>More interesting. Yes, of course. I wince under his gaze. Will he just leave already!?</p>
<p>“You’re trembling,” the observant owner of the strange house informs me. “Were you so frightened by a child climbing into the attic? You are a witch— I wager you <em>could have</em> handled him.”</p>
<p>It seems he can’t tell by my face that I have calmed down, and he adds irritatedly, “In case you haven't noticed, miss Granger, this isn't the safest neighborhood. But if you want every petty thief to turn to ash for the sake of your safety...”</p>
<p>I flush and interrupt him: “No, sir, of course not!”</p>
<p>When will he cease taunting me, and when will he let me go? Or is one directly related to the other? What's wrong with him anyway?</p>
<p>“I’m trying to say that I don’t understand how he got here.” Somehow I feel more and more like an idiot. “What if he is a wizard?”</p>
<p>“He probably is a wizard if he managed to get into my house.”</p>
<p>Yes, and he threw stones too accurately... even without aiming. But that's not the point. The point is… No, I need to move away from him. In some unobtrusive way.</p>
<p>“Do you think it strange that there are other wizards in the world?” the Professor smiles ironically. “Is that what is bothering you?”</p>
<p>I bite my lip, trying to understand why I really feel uneasy. This unpredictable man won’t step back from me and waits very patiently.</p>
<p>“That child is in trouble, that's what <em>I think</em>,” I answer after a pause. “That’s what is bothering me. I should have figured it out the last time. And helped.”</p>
<p>“Do you think you could have helped him?” he asks with interest.</p>
<p>“What do you think?” I exclaim, unable to bear it anymore. I am sick and tired of his tone. And I’m sick and tired of Sev…</p>
<p>“It couldn't hurt to try,” the Professor says with a strange intonation, running his hand over my hair. Or rather, the tumbleweed which currently masquerades as my hair. Just one small movement— I don't even have time to figure out what it was.</p>
<p>“Try it,” he smirks and steps back.</p>
<p>I stand as if rooted to the floor and blink in a daze. He stops just in front of the stairs, looks at me for a few seconds, as if deciding whether to speak or not, and then says carefully, “There are no other inhabited houses on Spinner’s End, Miss Granger. You can trust me.”</p>
<p>And then he walks away. Oh good gracious, he just walks away! And I, as luck would have it, can’t move from fear. Or from shock. How— there are <em>no</em> inhabited houses? What did I see then? Or who? And why did he touch my hair just now? Was he concerned that I almost broke my neck? Or did he decide that I have surreptitiously gone mad?</p>
<p>“Sir!” I call after him weakly. “Professor Snape!”</p>
<p>Rational thinking fails me at several key points at once, and I decide that Snape’s company is better than my own lonely introspection. I rush down the stairs again and step on a piece of broken mug, losing another ten seconds hopping on one leg. </p>
<p>I forget about the healing spell and limp down the narrow hallway to his door. I'll heal myself when I’m there. </p>
<p>I knock on the door, then peep inside— and there's no one there. The bedroom door is open, and it’s also empty. <em>Okay.</em> Just don’t get worked up! </p>
<p>Living room, kitchen, broom closet—  no one is there. My nerves have already been frayed. If this man has also dissolved into thin air… <em>I just don't know!</em></p>
<p>The front door is still sealed with the spell I cast after the scene with Mr Malfoy. I finally remember my wand, lift the spell, and open the door. The street is completely empty, and there are no signs of disturbance on the porch. There were none under the attic window either. </p>
<p>They are exceptionally peculiar after all— the inhabitants of Spinner's End...</p>
<p>Trying to contain my nervous tremors, I close the door, lock it with the regular bolt, and limp back to the attic. What if the Professor somehow slipped past me? He could have, of course, with his background as a spy. Only why would he? Why, why! How much can I conclude from his actions? </p>
<p><em>Gah!</em> I turn my head and flinch. The Professor is standing motionless in the dark corridor that I dashed out of not a minute ago.</p>
<p>“Blood,” he says, looking down at my feet thoughtfully, and then looks up at me questioningly.</p>
<p>I frantically rush to him and hang my hands around his neck. I’m finding it difficult to keep my balance without support and I'm still afraid. The Professor also struggles with keeping <em>his</em> balance, even leaning his back against the wall, but manages to keep my weight. And I still won’t let him go. I'm afraid that he will inexplicably disappear again, and everything that just was hinted at will disappear with him.</p>
<p>Actually, he wasn't about to disappear at all. He wasn't even <em>trying</em> to disappear. I realize now that he just went to the loo to wash his face. </p>
<p>He barely touches me, holding me by the shoulders to keep my sweater from getting wet. I’m jumpy today, and I could squeal from the cold so loud that even Professor Snape would start to stutter.</p>
<p>No, he won’t, actually. The more nervous he gets, the calmer he behaves. But cold is good. That’s what I need now because my face is so hot that I don’t dare to lift it up. I remove the Professor's hand from my right shoulder and press my cheek against his cool palm. <em>So good.</em> He flinches, as if in pain, but doesn’t withdraw his hand which I’m clutching with a death grip. </p>
<p>“What’s the matter with you?” he asks, concerned, after a stretched pause.</p>
<p>“I don’t know,” I reply flippantly, without even trying to open my eyes. “I've never had such strange things happen to me before. Have such strange things ever happened to you?”</p>
<p>“They might have done,” he sighs, not very happily. “Why are you standing on one leg?”</p>
<p>This calm tone of his won’t deceive me anymore. I can feel the same nervous tremor going through him. I feel it in his fingers, which have already warmed, touching my face, and his heart beats much too fast. His pulse under my palm is racing. <em>Don’t even think about touching me...</em> So this is what happens when I disobey him. My poor, poor thing!</p>
<p>“So tell me, do spies have holidays?” I ask very quietly, opening my eyes at last.</p>
<p><em>And what did you expect to see there?</em> I didn’t expect to see anything special— only <em>him</em>.</p>
<p>It’s a pity that there is never enough light in this house. I think I see some colour in the Professor’s face for the first time— other than the black and white. He doesn’t blush, of course, but his facial expression is not mask-like anymore. He looks at me almost with fear, as he did in the attic. But you can't deny that he's quick on the uptake. He smirks, steps back, withdraws his hand. He casts a healing spell on me, returning my ability to stand on my own, and casually slips out of the deadlock, rubbing his freed hand.</p>
<p>“I made a mess of the stairs,” I warn him. “And the carpet in the living room, too.”</p>
<p>“You only cause incidental damages,” he agrees, looking at the stairs.</p>
<p>I stop next to him and wait patiently. I know from experience that he is not able to limit himself to one sentence. He continues, almost without changing his tone, except a little more thoughtfully. </p>
<p>“I have become quite attached to you during these weeks, Miss Granger. Even though this hasn’t been the most pleasant period of my life. Or maybe <em>because</em> of it.”</p>
<p>He doesn’t even look at me, he doesn’t raise his voice. He’s become attached?! How long would I have been wondering had he not told me? What can I do? Everything I’m feeling is written on my face! But if he doesn’t stop speaking to me the way he spoke to Voldemort, I’ll… toss him into the shower! Or I’ll transfigure all of his robes yellow. I’ll do something to him, give me strength! </p>
<p>I sob. He finally deigns to look at who he's been talking to, sighs, and sits on the railing in the narrow space between the upstairs and down. I wouldn't risk sitting like this, but the Professor, unlike me, isn’t afraid to fall. Why should he be? He doesn't even need a broom!</p>
<p>It’s nice to see that there are some things he can do with ease. A thought slips through my mind immediately that this must be a habit from a completely different time. From those days when his father was smashing up everything downstairs, his mother was sobbing in the bedroom where she had locked herself, and their strange child was listening intently to what was happening in the house. Should you stay hidden in the attic, or risk slipping into the kitchen to get something? Only you needed to be very quiet. Very fast. Very cunning and inconspicuous. And should you get caught, don't let it show that there’s something hidden in your pockets. </p>
<p>The question I keep asking myself obsessively, ‘Was there a boy?’ jumps into my head. There was, probably. </p>
<p>Once. A long time ago.</p>
<p>He looks at me very carefully, unmoving and almost unblinking, as if he’s waiting for something to come to light on my face. And, it seems, he sees it, because he continues to talk, and doesn't keep silent.</p>
<p>“You see, the difficulty is that my situation is such that <em>I can't offer</em> you anything at the moment,” there are some new intonations in his voice and none of them are happy. “So it would be better if you didn’t need anything. First and foremost, if you didn’t need me. As a wise man once said, the choice is yours. The most important thing is not to lie to yourself. Otherwise I may drag you into my troubles and I can assure you, it won’t be pleasant. Think about it,” there is no smile, no hope in his eyes. “Please just think about it carefully.”</p>
<p>Clearly this means not everything is so plainly written on my face. Or, he doesn’t know much about women. And that, by the way, would not be surprising. That’s just how he is. He is always scary and says some scary things. </p>
<p>And what am I supposed to do after this grave confession? Should I run away? Kiss him? Burst into tears? I only now realize that tears are running down my cheeks. I’m crying already. I wipe my eyes with my both hands at once and whisper, because my voice is gone:</p>
<p>“I don’t need anything else… at… all...”</p>
<p>I’m afraid that his balance on the railing is unstable so I approach him very carefully. I almost don’t touch him, I kiss him quickly somewhere on his cheek and then run back to the attic. And then I bury myself under the blanket and cry.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>* * *</p>
</div>Towards evening, he comes by himself and asks me if I would ascend for dinner. So formal. <em>If I would ascend?!</em> My Muggle-born ladyship <em>will</em> ascend. From the attic.<p>And, for Merlin’s sake, what dinner? There are no dinners, no spring-cleaning, and no set times in this house. There are no normal ghosts either. Only us. I sit up in my bed, my head heavy and hair disheveled. My brain doesn’t work at all, my nose is congested, and I cannot quite breathe. Should the Professor force me to write his memoirs tonight, all of the ink will immediately blur. But I really want to eat— I haven’t eaten anything since this morning. Oh, but <em>I didn’t</em> eat anything this morning! Nor last night. And the Professor— I don’t even remember when last he ate.</p>
<p>“You don’t eat or drink anything.” I marvel.</p>
<p>“What makes you think that?” he’s astounded. “Do I look like a vampire to you?”</p>
<p>We move slowly into the dinning room. He stokes the fireplace, and I ask, still sniffing, “But what are we going to eat?”</p>
<p>“I don’t know. Whatever you want.”</p>
<p>An invitation to dinner without the dinner. How romantic! I’d say I adore it, but it seems that it would be too early to confess such things. I ask a very hard philosophical question instead. “Chicken or egg?”</p>
<p>“I think a chicken would be more substantial,” he answers without a pause.</p>
<p>“Then you need to get us a chicken,” I sigh and go to the kitchen. Some salt wouldn’t be bad, either. And something else besides coffee. </p>
<p>And, of course, the stove doesn’t work! I try to light it up with the help of <em>Incendio</em> several times but it doesn’t light.</p>
<p>“Try <em>Reparo</em>,” my teacher recommends behind my back.</p>
<p>“I already tried.”</p>
<p>We don’t know how else to revive the thing, so we give up and roast the chicken on a spit over the fireplace. It gets a little charred but is still edible. I wasn’t expecting this. Good thing that I didn’t offer to make scrambled eggs!</p>
<p>“This is how a woman makes a house a home,” my friendly host says with deadly seriousness, pouring wine into glasses. Red, as expected.</p>
<p>Is there wine stored somewhere? And glasses? I wonder how many other skeletons are hidden in his cupboards? I wouldn’t be surprised if there were some real skeletons— in the truest sense of the word— hidden there. But the only bones I’m interested in at the moment are the ones of the chicken. With some difficulty, I finally plate our humble supper. A cutting spell would be nice, but I’m too shy to ask for it so I struggle with the blunt kitchen knife. The Professor stares at the fire, twirls his glass, and seems to forget about my existence. He is very peculiar, indeed. And what is troubling him? At least we eat like normal people do. Almost. For the first time ever.</p>
<p>Then, of course, everything returns to normal. I carry the dishes away, the Professor summons my notes from the mantelpiece, finds where we left off, and continues to dictate. I write. He dictates. I write. And so on until late at night. But for the first time, I don’t grow tired from it and I forget to keep track of the time. </p>
<p>Maybe it’s because we sit on the sofa side-by-side.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p><a id="note9" name="note9"></a><sup>9</sup>Translator’s note: A fragment from Marina Tsvetaeva’s poem “The Heavy Forhead Leans...” (Клонится, клонится лоб тяжелый...) The line <strong>“Love me just a farthing more”</strong> in Russian originally says “Love me if only an altyn [more]”. ‘Altyn’ was a historical Russian currency the name of which eventually got lost. It was oftentimes figuratively used in the sense of ‘very little’. So, dear reader, you can choose whichever translation you like the best - “love me just an altyn more”, the neutral “love me just a tad more” or, keeping in line with naming a little, outdated amount of currency - “love me just a farthing more.” We went for a ‘farthing’ as it feels more suitable in the context of this text and didn’t want to distract from the textual flow. However, we would have probably used a different translation of the line if we were translating the poem only. (Though, the poem translation should probably be better left to professional poets-translators IMHO ;) )</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. The Horror of the Dungeons</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>A blizzard raged above our home all<br/>
year long,<br/>
The house was covered up to the roof, with<br/>
snow.<br/>
They told me— across the seven seas,<br/>
beyond<br/>
It’s always dry and warm in people’s<br/>
homes.</em>
</p><p>
  <a id="back1" name="back1"></a>
  <a id="back2" name="back2"></a>Andrey Makarevich
  <a href="#note10">
    <sup>10</sup>
  </a>
</p><p>“I will need to leave you tomorrow,” I say bluntly one gloomy spring morning.</p><p>We're sitting in the living room. The Professor, frowning, browses through the chapter about Nagini while I nervously leaf through a scientific volume on Transfiguration, waiting for him to finish his corrections. Finally, this nightmare is finished— the dark months of his headmastership at Hogwarts, the final orders of Professor Dumbledore, the final mad deeds of Voldemort, and the final battles.</p><p>“Then leave,” the Professor replies without batting an eye, instantly becoming completely dispassionate. “A snakebite is a good ending to the story.”</p><p><em>You</em> are a snake yourself, Professor. I cried all night long already—  and now, when I remember what happened to him then… <em>Don’t cry, Hermione!</em></p><p>“I’ll be back that same evening,” I say tensely.</p><p>I know that this is a violation of our unwritten contract and that the Professor has his own unexplained reasons, but I don’t see any other way out. Should I not have obligations to anyone else? Is he really still afraid that I’ll blab about him? After everything that’s happened between us? Well, it turns out that there <em>might</em> be something that <em>could</em> happen. Could there be something happening between us? He’s silent.</p><p>“Shall I not come back then?”</p><p>Again he’s silent. Fine. <em>Just great!</em> I’m not sure that any further explanation can make this situation better—  most likely it will only make things worse— but I explain, nevertheless: “This is my friends’ wedding. I can’t <em>not</em> go.”</p><p>The word ‘wedding’, as expected, doesn’t make the slightest impression on him. I don’t even dare to add that those friends are Harry Potter and Ginny Weasley. The owls don’t fly here, but I keep track of the date. And I promised Ginny a hundred years ago that I would be a bridesmaid. I already missed all of the wedding preparations…</p><p>He’s silent, continuing to note something in the margins. Of course, the sky won’t fall should I stay in the attic for the whole day tomorrow, but someone should give me <em>a good reason</em>  for it first. But he’s silent.</p><p>“Anyway, I’ll come back before midnight,” I say glumly. “We’ll even have time to work.”</p><p>“Be sure not to turn into a pumpkin, please,” the Professor answers with sickly sweet sarcasm.</p><p>I slam the book in exasperation and match his tone: “I hope that by then you won't be lying there dying of grief and despair. I only ask for one day, not a week!”</p><p>He winces but his voice is even more imperturbable. “Don’t worry, I will find something to do. I’ll read. I’ll cook up something poisonous. I’ll fly around the attic on a broom. Go on, Belle, go.”</p><p>Something tells me he’s not referring to my beauty. </p><p>“Is there anything you want to tell me? Sir?” I ask, losing my patience.</p><p>“Should I confess that I’m a prince?” he asks insidiously. “I’ll tell you tomorrow.”</p><p>“That you are… a Prince?” I don’t understand. If he, as he claims, is attached to me, why is he playing this mocking word game?</p><p>“No, that was in the first chapter,” he replies, rolling up the parchment. “And tomorrow we will write the last one.”</p><p>My heart sinks. The last one? Already?! And... what then?</p><p>“What happens next?” the words escape from my mouth.</p><p>His eyes flash on a pale face.</p><p>“We will talk about it later,” he says sharply. “Go, have fun and don’t think too hard.”</p><p>He gets up and leaves. Yet again he locks himself away. And he dictates nothing more. Oh lord, give me strength! How difficult it is with him! And why did I become attached to him? I really should just leave without turning back. And return to Ron. And stop chasing ghosts. But my heart flutters... And flutters... And flutters, and now I understand what Harry meant. And this is the only thing I understand right now. Okay, let’s wait until tomorrow.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>* * *</p>
</div>The next day he’s acting even weirder, but I’m not surprised at anything anymore. In the morning I try to not to remind myself of our quarrel, especially, since I’m not sure if there even <em>was</em> a quarrel. With him you can’t really tell anything for sure. He really messes with my head, this mysterious and sombre man. I know a lot about him, maybe too much, and at the same time I know almost nothing about him. For example, I don’t know what he is doing right now or what he is thinking about, and I can’t help but agonize over it. Maybe I <em>do</em> love him. Does he love me too, I wonder? Was he seriously going to ruin my holiday? Will he really not show himself today? And will he let me back into the house afterwards? I will leave anyway! Who’d put up with such an attitude?!<p>My conscience is bothering me for some reason. Trying to calm myself, I create a dress, purse, and some other little things with utmost care. I don’t sew them, of course, I transfigure them from everyday items. I’m so skilled at transfiguration that no fairies are needed. I can even turn anything into a pumpkin. Or anyone. Will he really never come out?</p><p>Having placed an inkwell between the branches painted on the wall, which in this case replaces a mirror, I mechanically select the color of the dress: pink, lilac, blue, green… What difference does it make anyway? Irritated, I put on my shoes and go downstairs to the living room. The Professor lies on the sofa and reads, as promised. He doesn’t even look up at me when I appear. </p><p>“How do you bear living with such a temperament?!” I exclaim. “Didn’t anyone ever suggest you change it?”</p><p>He contemplates this question with all seriousness and shakes his head. </p><p>“Never.”</p><p>But, judging by his memoirs, the suggestion was made at least hundred times a day.</p><p>“But this is just stupid!” I say, annoyed. “It’s <em>so stupid</em> to sulk about me going to a wedding. Would you rather go together?”</p><p>This idea dawns upon me all of a sudden, and I don’t even have time to think how Harry would react to it. Or the others. But on the other hand, I am allowed to come with… with… Professor Snape, aren’t I? Or how should I present him? Does <em>he</em> have any suggestions? For a second, I hope that he’ll agree, but this, of course, doesn’t happen.</p><p>“Not a chance,” the Professor replies, returning to his book. “I’m not going to deter you from going, though.”</p><p>“But you are! With your refusal to look at me!” I stamp my foot, forgetting that I am already wearing heels, and grab at the table to keep my balance. “Now I see why even house elves won't live with you!”</p><p>“Oh, I <em>almost</em> forgot that you are the founder of the movement for the freedom of the elves,” he mutters, turning a page. “Tell me your secret— how did you manage to agitate such calm and hardworking creatures?”</p><p>“I knitted hats for them,” I reply.</p><p>It seems as if he’s about to smile, but again— it only seems that way. He just chuckles darkly while looking at me. At least he refrains from commenting. So this is it… real emotion.</p><p>“The elves are free citizens now,” I say proudly. “As am I, by the way. And don’t look at me like that! Should you be given free rein, you would lock me in the basement.”</p><p>It suddenly occurs to me that I still don’t know if there’s a basement or not. And why did I say that? It might have been a bit too much. I can see how the Professor’s eyes light up with devilish mischief. He suddenly springs up, throwing the book away so abruptly that I jump. He leaps up and stalks to the kitchen. I follow him in panic— what if he’s sick or something else happened to him? He doesn’t explain anything to me. Without a word, he opens one drawer of the cupboard, then another, finds a rusty key, and hands it to me.</p><p>“Just don’t forget to wipe off the blood afterwards, Hermione,” he warns me in a confidential, yet ominous whisper. “Or <em>you</em> will become the seventh one.”</p><p>Oh Merlin! I lean my shoulder against the doorframe, only now realizing that he’s continuing yesterday’s game. If it had been Ron in front of me, I’d twirl my finger at my temple or punch him in the shoulder. But this is a serious and much respected man before me. If not mental.</p><p>“I don’t care about your skeletons,” I blurt out angrily. “And a man had better marry me first before offering me his keys!”</p><p>I turn on my heel, leaving him standing there with his key and stalk towards the exit.</p><p>What did I just say to and to whom? I never expected myself to do something like that. I just got so… nervous. He scared me. He definitely won’t let me get back in. He’ll hide his home under a <em>Fidelius</em> again and I will never find him... </p><p>Will he really not let me in again? Won’t he even kiss me goodbye? I feel my face growing hot again and my eyes fill with burning tears. I can’t see the bolt which I need to unlock. A <em>perfect state</em> to be in just before my best friend’s wedding! I manage to unlatch the bolt with my trembling fingers and swing the door open to freedom. After all, it’s impolite to Apparate <em>directly</em> from someone’s house. And propriety must be observed.</p><p>The Professor stops me at the last moment, turns me around and kisses me. And kisses me… And keeps kissing. I’m beginning to vaguely suspect that this is a clever new way of not letting me out of his house. Since he failed to lure me into his basement… I don’t understand why my heart is aching so? It seems that he’s not that angry after all. But he kisses me goodbye as if he doesn’t believe that I will return! But <em>I will</em> return! </p><p>He takes a step back, I take a step back, and there is a door separating us. I stand alone at Spinner’s End and press my palms against my burning cheeks. I will have to fix my hair and it looks like I forgot my purse... It’s the first sunny morning I have experienced here during my stay. Or does it seem like that because it’s the first time I have left the house in days? It looks as if it rained last night— the walls of the boarded brick buildings look clean and the broken pavement sparkles like ice. Squinting from the unusually bright light, I look around and for a second it seems to me that a familiar child’s figure flashes at the end of the street. I close my eyes tight and reopen them again. Spinner’s End is empty.</p><p>I wave my wand and disappear as well. <a id="back1" name="back1"></a><a id="back2" name="back2"></a>And it’s only then I remember that kissing on a doorstep brings bad luck.<a href="#note11"><sup>11</sup></a></p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p><a id="note10" name="note10"></a><sup>10</sup>Translator’s note: <strong>Andrey Vadimovich Makarevich</strong> (Андре́й Вади́мович Макаре́вич; born 11 December 1953 in Moscow) is a Soviet and Russian rock musician and the founder of Russia's oldest still active rock band ‘Машина Времени’ (Time Machine). The excerpt you read here (translated by us) is from the song ‘Home’ (Родной дом). You can hear the song on Youtube <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xhqaYgztaIg">here</a>. </p><p><a id="note11" name="note11"></a><sup>11</sup>Translator’s note: <strong>“I remember that kissing on a doorstep brings bad luck.”</strong> This is one of those things where some cultural aspect must be explained, otherwise it will make very little sense for a foreign reader. To kiss somebody over/on the doorstep is considered to be bad luck in many Slavic countries. It is believed that it could bring conflict and/or result in a break up in the relationship. You shouldn’t also speak to somebody, take or give something across the doorstep or sweep the dirt over it. It seems, these superstitions come from the Pre-Christian times when you buried ashes of your ancestors under the threshold of the entrance of your house.</p><p>Additional translator’s note: Тhе name of this chapter - <strong>‘The Horror of the Dungeons’</strong> pays homage to the Russian fandom scene. Snape is oftentimes named a ‘Horror of Dungeons’ there.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Severus</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>I dreamed about our home tonight,<br/>
In which I’ve never been before.<br/>
This other house is often there.<br/>
It seems, I’ve invented you as well.</em>
</p>
<p><a id="back1" name="back1"></a><a id="back2" name="back2"></a>Zoya Yaschenko<a href="#note12"><sup>12</sup></a></p>
<p> </p>
<p>I don’t believe in superstitions. They are all complete nonsense. I don’t believe in Crumple-Horned Snorkacks, another rebirth of Voldemort, or divination by coffee grounds (I was even kicked out of a Divination lesson for that). That is why I try to soothe my anxiety and wrench out all the nonsensical thoughts that crowd my head. I Apparate to my parents’ house, hug my mum and dad, pick up the gifts for Ginny and Harry that I stored there, and hurry on to the Burrow. And when Luna Lovegood meets me with a surprised, ‘You came, Hermione? I thought you were going to stay with him!’ I only smile and cheerfully answer, ‘Of course I came! How could I miss <em>this</em> of all weddings?!’</p>
<p>It would be easier to name all the people who <em>will</em> miss it than the ones who are present. A myriad of witches and wizards, both invited and not, have gathered for this occasion. Mr Weasley is already worried about whether there will be enough tents to fit everybody. Harry flatly refused to share the expenses with the bride's family, but asked for the celebration to be held in the Burrow. The house on Grimmauld Place is not suitable for such noisy and large-scale festivities, and I suppose there is another reason as well.</p>
<p>The first magical wedding Harry (and I) ever saw took place here. It was the best day after many unhappy ones, and the best day before many more miserable ones to follow. And now there will be another celebration, but there will be no Death Eaters making an appearance at the end of this one. Something stabs at my heart— is this the reason why Severus didn’t want to come? No, he doesn’t like these kinds of occasions at all. I catch myself thinking that I call him by his first name behind his back and, it seems, I miss him already. But then I get caught up in the whirlwind of the celebrations, and for a while I stop tormenting myself with my doubts.</p>
<p>There are too many impressions and too many encounters. And, thank Merlin, I didn’t muddle anything up! I was afraid that the date or place would be changed without my knowledge. But everything is going as it should. The spring weather is clear, but not hot. The green tents look exquisite on the soft grass, garlands of white flowers float prettily between the tents, and musicians play something terribly touching. For the first time in a long time, my heart feels light and I finally emerge from the memories of war. All is well. It’s a wonderful day today, my friends are nearby, my parents are doing well, and I have interesting work. And, it seems, I’m in love. That’s why everything seems to be even more beautiful. I’m dismayed that he didn’t agree to come with me. Why didn’t he agree? I haven’t been his student for a very long time, and he doesn’t work at Hogwarts anymore… He could have broken away from his dead-end for at least a half an hour!</p>
<p>I sigh and do my bit before the celebrations, spelling a flock of golden birds to flutter between the tents, and go looking for the heroes of the festivities. Harry is already in the main tent looking very grown-up and very nervous. Ron is standing next to him and says something that makes Harry look even more worried.</p>
<p>“He’ll give him a heart-attack.” George confides to me, continuously waving his wand as colorful confetti crackers are cheerfully hung from the ceiling, obeying his order.</p>
<p>“Are you sure those won’t scare anybody?” I ask with concern.</p>
<p>“Are you kidding me?! On the contrary, they’ll liven things up! Half the people here will be asleep by the end of the ceremony!” George says convincingly. “You're not going to run away right after the end of the official part, I hope? We won’t let you go, Hermione, until you’ve taken leave of your responsibilities and let loose a little! It’s bad enough that Ronald has cried a river over you in our shop because you’ve forgotten about him.” </p>
<p>“I’m sorry. I hope that the flood didn't do too much damage to business,” I say, not really believing him about Ron’s sentimentality.</p>
<p>“Don’t worry about it! The lake that puddled in the middle of the sales floor is a great customer attraction,” George grins. “I owe you a percentage!”</p>
<p>At this point Harry and Ron finally notice me. They break off their argument and burst into boisterous salutations. We don’t have much time for a heartfelt chat, but I manage to give Harry a collectible Snitch with a <a id="back1" name="back1"></a><a id="back2" name="back2"></a>secret feature<a href="#note13"><sup>13</sup></a>, recite all proper congratulations, hug him, and kiss him on his cheek.</p>
<p>“Are you happy?” I ask him at last.</p>
<p>“I’m happy.”</p>
<p>“Then stay that way.”</p>
<p>Ron and I barely exchange a few words, but I’ll have time to talk with him after the ceremony. He won’t be busy <em>all</em> day, though he is acting as the best man. It’s time for me to get into my role as well, and I hurry back to the Burrow, weaving between the tents, speeding up and slowing down, exchanging greetings with guests. There’s only one truly annoying encounter, which delays me on the way— Rita Skeeter swoops on me like a vulture ready to pick out my eyes. I’m willing to bet that no one invited her. She's who the real spy is! I’m very glad that Miss Skeeter doesn’t work at <em>The Daily Prophet</em> anymore. I can’t stand her!</p>
<p>Confirming my worst suspicions, Miss Skeeter bombards me with semi-transparent questions, making me think that she knows something about what I have been doing lately. Her hints are somewhat ambiguous. She’s trying to make me mad on purpose, but I won’t let this pest of a woman sting me again. I tell her that I don’t understand a word of her buzzing, and that weakens her onslaught immediately. Apparently, she still hasn't registered her Animagus form. And she doesn’t want to be returned to the jar again. Then I ask her if she’s forgotten <em>something</em>. And I ask if I should remind her of <em>something</em>. And then I ask if I should call <em>somebody else</em>, so that they can remind her of <em>something</em> as well. I ask, and ask again, and again, and the tempo of my speech increases so that Miss Skeeter can’t get a word in edgeways. Eventually, she gets out of my way. As always, she’s quite pleased that she got enough necessary material.</p>
<p>What a witch! I wonder why she needs magic at all?! I think that Severus was right in deciding not to come here. Though, I suspect that he would not let himself be so offended. </p>
<p>I’m not really that offended— I’m just angry. But my spirits are immediately lifted up by Hagrid’s appearance. Overjoyed by our meeting, he ushers me straight up to the door, never ceasing to share how happy he is for Harry and Ginny. I manage to reach the bride at the last moment without disrupting the beginning of the ceremony. Phew!</p>
<p>Ginny is just as nervous as Harry. Well, not quite as nervous. When <em>she</em> is nervous the air sparkles with electricity and the wallpaper crackles. Mrs Weasley, Luna, Fleur and about five of her cousins surround Ginny in a noisy swarm. The dress is a bit too large, the tiara sits crooked on her head, and the orange blossoms have disappeared somewhere. And it’s too hot— <em>let’s open the windows so her makeup doesn’t run! No, close the windows— her hair will get mussed up!</em></p>
<p>Everything is marvelous! I’m so happy for her. Ginny, despite being extremely busy, manages to exchange kisses with me and accept my gift— an enchanted brooch, which coordinates with her dress perfectly. At least now there’s something to pin the neckline, which is too daring from her mother’s point of view. I’m proud of Ginny, by the way. She has managed to resist Mrs Weasley’s protests and chose turquoise instead of white for her wedding dress. It suits her so much better.</p>
<p>“We’ll chat for at least a couple hours tomorrow. I’ll tell you everything first,” Ginny whispers under the cover of the general hubbub, suddenly making a worried face. “You haven’t made up with Ron yet, have you? Maybe you’ll manage it at the reception?”</p>
<p>There’s hope in her eyes that we will become real sisters, and that at least one of her brothers will choose a wife from the “inner circle.” The same hope is reflected in the eyes of Mrs Weasley. She won’t say anything, of course, but I know that they found it difficult to get used to Fleur. But they managed. They will manage to get used to somebody else as well. But I don’t want to worry anybody. </p>
<p>I smile and say, “We’ll talk about all that tomorrow. You are getting married right now! Have fun and  don’t think too hard!”</p>
<p>I say all those things knowing that I won’t be here tomorrow.</p>
<p>But I’m here today!</p>
<p>It’s not worth trying to persuade Luna to change her dress colour to match mine, so I silently agree to an orange dress with green polka-dots. Oddly enough, it better complements the bride. Eventually, everybody’s ready, and our procession gracefully walks with Ginny to the main tent. Harry and Ron already have taken their places, as have the sea of guests. The music becomes more ethereal, the white flowers slowly start to fall from the wreaths hovering under the dome, and we begin our walk down the central aisle. I think I’m going to cry.</p>
<p>“It’s all very touching, isn’t it?” Luna whispers to me. “Love is the most wonderful miracle. It’s more wonderful than any magic!”</p>
<p>I nod. I try not to focus on the maudlin, and concentrate on just being happy for my friends instead. What’s not so great, as George warned me before, is that the ceremony takes so long that wizards young and old start to doze off. And I can’t stand on these heels anymore. My calves are starting to cramp. But all things eventually come to an end, even the most lovely things. Harry and Ginny are showered with silver stars, the spectators are showered in confetti from the exploding crackers, and we all applaud the newlyweds. We applaud them again, and again, and I can sit at last.</p>
<p>A multi-tiered tray with sandwiches and champagne glasses immediately bumps into my elbow, and I remember that I have forgotten to eat breakfast again. In the strange place where I live one tends to fall out of normal human habits very quickly.</p>
<p>Just as I stuff my mouth with a sandwich, an elderly witch (if memory serves it’s the Weasleys’ Aunt Muriel) sits down next to me and remarks that she thinks she’s seen me before. I nod because it’s impolite to speak with my mouth full. And due to my polite silence, I’m informed that I still can’t sit up straight, style my hair, or choose the right shoes to fit my bony ankles. In short, I lack the proper breeding. </p>
<p>I listen to her and think that there’s something to be said for not trying to be nice and please everyone. If I could just tell the old witch to go take a hike, that would be the end of it. But I can’t be rude to the elderly. So, I placidly reply that my friends, parents, and husband-to-be are all quite satisfied with my appearance, and I don’t believe I will be seeing her again, though it saddens me <em>enormously</em>. Have I picked up somebody’s bad habits already? Ron rescues me from this awkward situation.</p>
<p>“Oh Aunt Muriel!” he greets the venerable witch. “I see that you’ve met Hermione. She’s my best friend, you know. Have you seen Uncle Reginald? He was about to Apparate away. He said that his grandchild is about to be born any minute, and he wants to take the first photographs himself.”</p>
<p>Ron is a smooth liar. His experience doing business with George is showing. Ron is skilled now at inspiring trust. His overwhelmingly serious facial expression, formal ceremonial robes, and neat haircut all suggest that such a well-bred young man would <em>never</em> deceive his cantankerous elderly aunt for the sake of humour.</p>
<p>Ronald’s aunt straightens up in all her aristocratic grandeur, and her eyes burn with righteous anger.</p>
<p>“Cecilia is already in labour? Why am I being notified at the very last moment?” she lashes out at Ron.</p>
<p>But Ron only shrugs, and the furious aunt, shaking her parasol, goes looking for Reginald who is responsible for her current state of agitation. Ron plops down contentedly on the chair next to me and grabs two sandwiches at once.</p>
<p>“That was cruel,” I say with shudder. “Poor Uncle Reginald! And Cecilia.”</p>
<p>“Actually he hasn’t arrived yet. He usually shows up fashionably late to these events. And Cecilia isn’t due for another six months,” says my companion with his mouth full, suddenly throwing an intent look at me. “What about us? It’s better you tell me now and get it over with. <em>Peace and Friendship?</em>”</p>
<p>“<a id="back1" name="back1"></a><a id="back2" name="back2"></a><em>And a Chocolate Frog seals it</em><a href="#note14"><sup>14</sup></a>,” I answer sincerely and he, having been set at ease, continues to chew his food.</p>
<p>The fun is not in full swing yet, but it gradually moves in that direction. The music doesn’t stop. Harry and Ginny dance in the middle of the tent in a circle of light which flashes blue, then golden, then emerald. Some other couples are slowly joining them. Those who aren’t ready to dance yet huddle in groups, chatting and sipping champagne.</p>
<p>“Why did you disappear then?” Ron asks worryingly.</p>
<p>“I didn’t disappear. I just had a lot of work to do.”</p>
<p>“I know,” he grins. “Your Mr Pollard ratted you out to us. He couldn’t resist Harry’s beautiful eyes. Well, that and his promise to smash the editorial office to smithereens if he didn’t tell us where you were. Is Snape not giving you room to breathe?”</p>
<p>“Hush, Ron,” I say conspiratorially. “This is classified information. A secret mission for the Order.”</p>
<p>Ron watches me suspiciously for a second, but then bursts out laughing.</p>
<p>“Okay, Mia, but just answer me one thing— was he really on our side?”</p>
<p>“He was,” I answer forcefully.</p>
<p>‘Mia’ existed only between our first kiss and the last ‘let us be friends’, and I don’t know what to think of this slip, and I decide to ignore it.</p>
<p>“But now you can stay with us!” Ron, as if suddenly realizing this, hastily changes the subject. “The out-of-town guests won’t leave for another month, so don’t worry about bothering us. By Merlin, you look green! You really should have a rest, if only for a week.”</p>
<p>If only for a week! It would be nice. I imagine for a moment just how nice it would be. Hanging out with friends, eating Mrs Weasley’s pies, forgetting all diets, and remembering the good old days at school. Just remembering something fun. But the unfathomable term ‘week’ immediately evokes in my mind the memory of an instantly frozen face, an instant shudder, and the instant horror in his eyes. </p>
<p>Of course, during that week he could find time to visit me! Or he could wait a week? I’d send him an owl. The owls would <em>probably</em> reach him. The book is almost done, but if he’s in such a hurry, he could always write the last chapter himself— nothing to be afraid of.</p>
<p><em>Nothing</em> to be afraid of. </p>
<p>But I know it won’t happen that way. He won’t come. Everything is so strange between us. It’s all so… inexplicable. I can’t find a more apt description yet.</p>
<p>“No, thanks.” I say after a pause. “I really have work to do...”</p>
<p>“Come on, you can work alongside the howling of Wildfire Whiz-bangs!” Ron argues. “And Mum will create a cozy space for you to just write. You need to live somewhere anyway. And the Burrow is just paradise in the summertime!</p>
<p>I can’t argue with that. A paradise would have everything that's here. Although, paradise does not have everything. Death, for example, does not exist there… Where is my mind taking me today? I feel ashamed around Harry and Ginny. And I’m ashamed in front of everyone who arranged this celebration.</p>
<p>“Should we shake some cobwebs off?” Ron offers when the music changes again.</p>
<p>I nod— why not?</p>
<p>“I just need to take off my shoes first. My feet are sore,” I say, pretending to lower my head just to unbuckle my straps, not to wipe off the tears that were brought on by the sudden darkness of my thoughts. </p>
<p>Oh well. Should anybody notice, I’ll say that I’m crying out of happiness. </p>
<p>It’s partially true. It’s just that today has been a very long and intense day. And it certainly won’t hurt me to shake myself. So Ron and I get out into the circle and start spinning slowly to the music. Without shoes I’m not worried about stepping on his toes, and I can calmly contemplate my current circumstances on my own. I contemplate the things my Professor is doing right now, and I wonder if it’s time to go back to him or if it’s really <em>that</em> important to finish this dance with Ron. Ron is an old friend; he’d understand. But who knows when I’ll have the opportunity to dance again? Severus is unlikely to be coerced into it!</p>
<p>“Look, I was just thinking,” Ron starts overly flippantly, “Maybe we jumped to conclusions? I don’t mean that we should get back together <em>right now</em>. Just, maybe in the future? I mean, we know each other like no one else. And we’re good together—  tried and tested! Is it really that necessary to have some dramatic, heart exploding passion?”</p>
<p>I am silent as I don’t know what to say or in how much detail. Should I tell him that I didn’t even consider returning to him? I hate to lie! Should I say that I have a… what do I have? Another man who has become… attached… who has some troubles… and nothing is really clear… and no, I can’t ask him about it directly. I can’t even ask about it circumspectly. I think I want to be with him, but I don’t know if I can. And if nothing should work out, I’d have to go on with my life. And if I don’t drown myself in that nameless, putrescent river, then I’ll probably run back to you, Ron. Just sit and wait— I shouldn't die a bluestocking spinster anyway!</p>
<p>“You don’t have to answer that,” Ron concedes, and it’s only now I realize that we’re no longer dancing, but standing still.</p>
<p>I know that I have to say something, but he really shouldn’t have asked. That’s not fair. I already explained everything back in the winter, and now it’s doubly hard for me. </p>
<p>“You have somebody, don’t you?” Ron’s voice is strained and I cannot understand if he's just asking or he’s figured it out, like Rita Skeeter did.</p>
<p>Why does everybody figure everything out immediately? Is there something written on my face? Some mark of attachment?</p>
<p>“He got you, didn’t he?” Ron tries to keep his voice low, but it’s obvious he won’t last long.</p>
<p>A few years ago he would have gone spare. But we all grow up. Especially after everything that’s happened between us. It's good that Ron is growing up. Being a man is actually harder than it sounds.</p>
<p>“What are you talking about?” I ask quietly.</p>
<p>“I don’t know. <em>Someone</em>,” he watches my face closely as if he’s trying to read the name there. “I’m shocked, Hermione! I didn’t expect you to lose your head. At least tell me, what’s your secret?”</p>
<p>I shrug. At the very least, having this outsider’s view helps to determine my diagnosis. I'm hopeless. I won't hide in <em>their</em> burrow, I'll hide in mine.</p>
<p>“There’s no secret, Ron,” I say calmly. Very calmly. “And you don’t need to overthink it. You are wonderful, but… this won’t work. It just won’t. I’m sorry but I won’t change my mind. I think I want to change my life. Maybe  I’ll get married. Soon.”</p>
<p>Ron only shakes his head. We were dating for more than two years but there was never a talk about marriage— why rush? It’s then that the orchestra begins to play some faster music and the number of dancers increases. I’m still standing still, and Ron moves away as there are more and more people between us. Each of them would tell me that I’m a fool if they knew what was going on. Each and every one.</p>
<p>Ron is lovely. Not only is he lovely, but he's one of the tight knit circle of people close to me who can be counted on one hand. This circle rarely accepts anybody else. Ron and I have been through so much! As much, in fact, as I’ve been through with Harry. But Harry’s not interested in marrying me. He’s married the one he loves. The War is over and there’s no need to <em>only</em> trust each other, unconvinced of who is an enemy and who is not. Right?</p>
<p>If I’m wrong, then I’m making the biggest mistake of my life. But Ron’s already smiling and, interlocking his thumbs, he pantomimes a complicated figure. A <em>Chocolate Frog seals it</em>— I read his lips. Peace and friendship. I smile even though someone who doesn’t understand this would think that Ron is trying to tease me. Well, he used to. The frogs liked to unexpectedly jump under our covers, and I’d shriek so loud that you could hear me throughout the entire house. I don’t really want to shriek in my new home. And no one will show me the <em>Chocolate Frog</em> sign again. And there won’t be any ‘Mia’ anymore. Ever. </p>
<p>So be it.</p>
<p>I nod, turn around, and walk away. I’m not in the mood for fun anymore anyway. And my heart is sinking… It’s better to disappear now while there are so many people around and no one is focused on me. I leave the tent and walk deeper into the garden to Apparate from there unnoticed. It’s already getting dark, but there’s plenty of time left before midnight, so for several minutes I stand under the real, not painted tree trying to pull myself together. If I’m going to cry, it’s better I should break down here, calmly and thoroughly. I sit down on the grass. And I just sit. </p>
<p>No, I don’t want to cry anymore. On the contrary, the excitement caused by my recent conversation recedes, and my confidence that everything is as it should be grows. How good it feels that the decision has finally been made! I won’t lie to anybody, and whatever will be, will be.</p>
<p>Oh, something is going to happen. Something for sure. I can feel it. The sun hasn’t quite set yet, but I’m shivering. And why is it that the longer I think about Severus, the more anxious I get? I can’t take it anymore. I jump up, cursing Merlin, and hastily draw an invisible pattern in the air with my wand. The sandwiches bounce in my stomach, my sight darkens and my ears pop from the sudden movement, but after a second I sigh with relief. </p>
<p>The inimitable stench of Spinner’s End tells me I’m home.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p><a id="note12" name="note12"></a><sup>12</sup>Translator’s note: <strong>Zoya Nikolaevna Yaschenko</strong> (Зоя Николаевна Ященко, born on 29 February 1972 in Poltava) is a Russian singer, songwriter and poet. You can hear the full song which is named ‘You are there...’ (Вы там…) on Youtube <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kztS7OD1zRI">here</a>.</p>
<p><a id="note13" name="note13"></a><sup>13</sup>Translator’s note: <strong>“Snitch with a secret feature”</strong>  In Russian there’s an expression ‘an object with a secret’ which is used here as well. It means that this object has a hidden feature or property - similarly like with those famed famous <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Faberg%C3%A9_egg">Fabergé Eggs</a>. But, unfortunately a ‘Snitch with a secret’ does not translate very well, so we settled for a ‘Snitch with a secret feature'.</p>
<p><a id="note14" name="note14"></a><sup>14</sup>Translator’s note: <strong>“Peace and Friendship? - And a Chocolate Frog seals it!”</strong> This is actually an allusion to a phraseologism in Russian which says: ‘Peace, friendship, chewing gum!’ (Мир, дружба, жвачка!) According to <a href="https://gevathka.ru/mir-druzhba-zhvachka-chto-oznachaet/">this</a> Russian source, this expression was coined in a Soviet youth festival, where the official slogan was ‘Piece, friendship, festival.’ Someone at the festival ‘renamed’ it to ‘Peace, friendship, chewing gum!’ as a chewing gum was not a common, but much loved commodity. From then on the expression ‘Peace, friendship, chewing gum!’ was and is still often used when people make up after a conflict.<br/></p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Our Best Spy</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>It was dreadful to live in that house,<br/>
And not the patriarchal glow of the hearth,<br/>
Not the fact that we were both young,<br/>
Nothing diminished the feeling of fear,<br/>
And you said, smiling strangely:<br/>
“Who are they dragging down the stairs?”</em>
</p><p><a id="back1" name="back1"></a><a id="back2" name="back2"></a>Anna Akhmatova<a href="#note15"><sup>15</sup></a></p><p> </p><p>As soon as I cross the threshold of the house, a heavy weight presses down upon my heart again, my blood runs cold, and the first thought that comes to mind is a very bad one. I instantly pull myself together; I don’t know why I’m thinking negative thoughts more and more often. It’s so unlike me. It must be the Professor and his dark stories.</p><p>The Professor sits in his chair, his book set aside, and he seems to be dozing. The greenish curtains and the fading evening sun create a ghostly semi-darkness, as if the house is sinking under water. The fire has died… The face of the owner of the house seems to be the only bright spot. He has always been very pale, but now he looks paler than ever. Something is wrong with him. Something <em>is</em> wrong, and this can no longer be explained by the consequences of snake bites and an unhealthy lifestyle.</p><p>I approach him and touch his shoulder lightly. He flinches but he doesn’t open his eyes immediately, he opens them very slowly, as if bespelled or waking from anesthesia. So very slowly, agonisingly so, that I automatically reach into my pocket for my wand to try to help him somehow. But he’s already come to his senses, frees his hand from under the book and looks at his palm absentmindedly before he runs it down his face. This gesture seems somewhat odd and so unlike a normal gesture— as if he’s removing an invisible cobweb. He watches my face for a few seconds, then pulls me closer to him and presses his forehead to my solar plexus. He is silent. Explains nothing. Doesn’t ask anything. And then I feel that heart-exploding feeling: I want to cry and I want to stay like this forever. </p><p>I gently place my hand on his head and smooth his long, coarse hair. Raven’s wing. Thin, grey strands intertwine near his temples. What’s wrong, my strongest, my most proud? My love. Tell me! But he never says what you’d expect from him. When he finally opens his eyes and looks up at me, I still can’t find the answer in his expression.</p><p>“Sit down, Hermione. Let’s finish the book,” he says in a calm voice.</p><p>Stay calm. I sit down calmly, though I haven’t even managed to change my clothes. I feel naked here in my, or rather Luna’s, dress, which is the colour of sun and apples. But everything I need for my work is already lying in front of me on the table. All that remains is for me to take up the quill. I look at the Professor and I like his appearance less and less. That is, I like him more and more, but it would be better for him not to work right now. I’d rather he went to bed. Or straight to St Mungo’s hospital.</p><p>“Can’t we postpone it until tomorrow? Do you want me to help you to bed, Severus?” I ask with concern, but he shakes his head.</p><p>“Did you decide to break another promise?” his voice sounds just a little bit deeper than usual. “Just write. If the need arises, I’ll lie down on the sofa.”</p><p>‘<em>…And I’ll continue to dictate at all costs.</em>’ Is it really that important to him? I’m not sure if I’m doing the right thing to obey him, but you just try <em>not</em> to obey him! You can’t really drag him away by force. You can try, but I still remember how he was able to do magic even with his throat ripped open— I don’t stand a chance against him. My heart aches again, and I look at the traces of those old scars. What if they are not the problem? That damned snake was Voldemort’s horcrux, and who knows what magic it concealed? But externally, the aggravation of the scar is barely perceptible. And I don’t know what else to say, so I pick up the quill reluctantly… and then return it to the inkwell. No, this is absolute nonsense! This is so wrong!</p><p>“This is wrong!” I say desperately. “Perhaps you can tell me about something else?”</p><p>The Professor raises his eyebrows, feigning bewilderment. He quickly reverts to his usual manner of behavior and that means that I likely won’t achieve my aim.</p><p>“Everything else has already been told,” he informs me.</p><p>Merlin, give me strength!</p><p>“Oh yes? Well then, what’s happening to you? Why is it that the <em>only</em> thing you want to do is narrate your memories? Why don’t you ever go outside or invite anyone to visit you? How come you don’t <em>want</em> anything else? And why should I keep enabling this vicious cycle?”</p><p>His palms are digging into the arms of the chair again and it looks as if the wood is about to splinter. He says in an absolutely icy voice, “You don’t owe me anything. Tired of writing? Then don’t write. Do whatever you want.”</p><p>‘Do whatever you want’ sounds very much like ‘get lost.’ It is very hurtful. I cannot even convey <em>how</em> hurtful. I didn’t mean it that way and, most importantly, he knows that perfectly well. He’s just pissed off that I refused to obey him. </p><p>“Really?” I burst in tears again. “Then my last question is this: Why are you on the verge of fainting if I so much as say that I will be absent for a few hours?”</p><p>“Probably, because I’ve been cursed,” he smirks darkly. “I can’t live without you. I will die of grief and despair.”</p><p>This grudge-holding, insufferable man! I can’t believe he's back at <em>this</em>  again! His face is almost bloodless, his lips practically white, but he does not hold back as he continues making fun of me.</p><p>“Fine,” I give up. “I'd rather you continue dictating then, sir. At least something productive will come of all this.”</p><p>“I'm already dictating,” he says without batting an eye.</p><p>Patience. He's really, really looking unwell. I won't argue with him.</p><p>“What... should I write all this down?” I clarify.</p><p>After all, it won’t take long to scribble down a couple of paragraphs. He shrugs as if to indicate he won't repeat himself.</p><p>“Whatever you say,” I begin to write with a sigh. “Who cursed you?”</p><p>“A horrible and evil wizard, who else?”</p><p>What can I say? A perfect start for the last chapter!</p><p>“But what…?” I stutter, my question trailing off. My hand begins to shake and small blobs of ink fall down on the parchment.</p><p>“But... <em>what</em>?” my Professor acts surprised. “Was just one evil wizard not enough for you? I'm sorry I didn't accompany you to the party, Miss Granger. One day away and you’ve had such a <em>clearing of the mind</em>! Well, take a look at the previous paragraph. Who have we been talking about for the past several weeks now?”</p><p>I mechanically follow his prompt by looking at the lines above. I already know who he is talking about, I’m just trying to understand when the fairy tale became reality. The Professor has completely confused me with his horror stories. If he hoped to somehow diffuse the effect they produced, he did not succeed. I’m in shock, and have suddenly forgotten how to read. My tongue is tied, my lips are trembling, and I can’t see anything through the tears. What is this?! What is he talking about?</p><p>Severus comes to me, quickly and silently. He crouches down next to me and takes my hands in his.</p><p>“Shhh, Little One,” he says softly. “It’s not that bad.”</p><p>It’s not that bad, huh? Then why am I so scared? I know his calm self-possession can’t be trusted, but he doesn’t take his eyes off my face until my hands stop shaking. His movements seem confident, his voice sounds resolute, and I begin to wonder if things really aren’t that bad? A curse cast by Voldemort that Severus Snape can’t handle... What <em>could</em> be worse? What kind of curse is this?!</p><p>He gets up and walks up to the window to draw the curtains. I guess it’s a habit of living in a bad neighborhood, where somebody can throw rocks through your window… However, there’s <em>nobody</em> left here to throw rocks, and Severus is not so easily hurt. Almost impossible. But a habit is a habit. Like the habit to keep the windows closed because of the foul stench from the river. But today I see bad omens in everything.</p><p>“So it's because of Voldemort that you're not leaving here?” I ask carefully.</p><p>I don't know why such a curse was even necessary, but you never know what goes on in the mind of the madman who fancies himself a Lord. Lock somebody away in his most hated place— why not? But Severus looks at me with surprise and concern.</p><p>“I can leave at any moment, Hermione. I eat, drink and sleep. What were you envisioning? I’m telling you it’s not that bad.”</p><p>“I don’t know what to think anymore!” I exclaim.</p><p>I keep mentaly rewinding the entire scroll written here and I don’t understand… I don’t understand… I don’t understand, and I cannot find the answer.</p><p>“When did he manage to curse you? And how?” I exhale, desperate to figure it out. “And why am I only now finding out about it?”</p><p>The Professor leans back on a nearby bookcase and says, smirking, “Are you suggesting that such things must be reported <em>before</em> the engagement? I apologize, I didn’t expect such a sudden proposal from your side. And I’m sorry, but you know quite well what curse we are talking about. And you know when it was cast.”</p><p>After the first part of his speech, I’m having a difficult time perceiving the second half, and now I’m even more confused. Now I’m the silent one, and Severus' anxiety ceases to be superficial.</p><p>“What’s wrong with you today, Hermione?” he asks, frowning. “Have you forgotten that I wear the Dark Mark? You yourself demanded that I show it to you!”</p><p>And he refused to do it. I blink. No, I didn’t forget… of course I didn’t. I just stopped thinking about it. I can’t think of him being a Death Eater. In any case, that’s all in the past. Or is it?</p><p>“I know what the Mark is,” I say quietly. “But perhaps I don’t understand everything. After all, Voldemort is dead, and the dead don’t need signs of loyalty.”</p><p>“Not a sign, but an oath,” the Professor corrects mechanically. He has always demanded the utmost exactness. The subtleties may play an important role.</p><p>“Ok, an oath,” I agree, still not getting the point. “I know that this… <em>magic</em> served several purposes. But Voldemort can no longer control it!”</p><p>“There’s the rub,” Severus explains gently. “And that is how the Mark serves its final purpose. Previously, Voldemort preferred to deal with such matters in person. Of course, now his magic is not as indestructible as before our victory against him. But it still remains in effect.”</p><p>I shiver and involuntarily touch my throat with my hands. I can’t respond because I cannot speak, as if an invisible snake is coiling around my neck.</p><p>“But...” I  finally gasp, looking up at him with wild eyes. “But… if… if it could... cause you serious harm… wouldn't it have done so already?”</p><p>“In due time, but not right away,” he says distantly. “The Dark Lord never accepted the more primitive methods.”</p><p>Again Severus calls this creature a Lord, and again an impenetrable indifference awakens in him. I understand that once again he’s there, living on the other side of the shadows. It’s as if something is switched on in him, if you could say it that way. Or perhaps it turns off? I feel as if he dives into some bottomless pit, and the expression in his eyes subtly changes  making it much harder to understand what he’s really feeling. If I hadn’t spent so much time with him, hadn’t learned so much about him, hadn’t… fallen in love with him, I wouldn’t have perceived that he'd put his mask on again. I don’t want to see him in his mask, but I know that he can’t do anything about it. How else can one avoid going mad from the myriad nightmares?</p><p>“If the problem is in the Mark, it means that you aren’t the <em>only one</em> Voldemort is dragging into it,” I say, desperately clinging to any shred of hope. “If there were no cure, someone would have already paid the ultimate price! It’s unlikely that Mr Malfoy would have been bothered about his good name if he had the same problem. And he was the first of the Death Eaters!”</p><p>Severus just shrugs— he doesn’t need to bother about <em>his</em> ‘good name’ anymore, so my argument doesn’t prove anything. </p><p>I know that there’s no use in arguing with him, but I don’t like his indifference. There must be a way out! Surely there is! Otherwise, there would have been broadcasts all around Britain reporting this mysterious retribution against Death Eaters. Worst of all, Severus would have been grouped together with them again. </p><p>But it turns out, everything is much worse.</p><p>“Lucius really was one of the closest confidants of the Dark Lord,” the Professor doesn’t even try to argue with me. “He was one of the first to accept the Mark, and the only reason why he avoided imprisonment twenty years ago was because he claimed to have been under the Imperius Curse. As did many others.”  </p><p>But not Severus. I begin to understand what he means, and my blood runs cold. I seem to feel how it slows in its current, and it crawls through my veins slower… slower… the blood will stop running altogether any moment. Together with my heart. Because there is no hope. And no one will tell us where to look for deliverance.</p><p>“Lucius escaped his imprisonment again this time,” Severus reminds. “A decisive role in that decision was played by the fact that he was <em>already imprisoned</em> in Azkaban while Voldemort moved swiftly to power. But Lucius never betrayed the Dark Lord. There weren’t many who did.”</p><p>He doesn’t add anything else, but I understand the rest: of those who broke this terrible oath of fealty, no one else survived Voldemort. My voice is completely gone, but at least I can’t hear it trembling.</p><p>“This… punishment, what is it?” I say in a strangled whisper. “What do you feel?”</p><p>Most likely, what I saw was just an end of an attack. Does it come in fits? Or does it happen to him continuously?</p><p>“What does it matter?”</p><p>Severus has now reached such a depth that it becomes clear to me that if you were to <em>Crucio</em> him, it wouldn’t even register. The fear of death couldn’t force him. He didn’t share in detail how such depths were formed, but I understand that this is how they came to be. It hurts me to think about it. Now I constantly hurt for him.</p><p>“And you still lie to me that it’s not that bad!” I say bitterly.</p><p>He doesn’t answer me— that inscrutable silence again! He watches through the gap in the curtains as the daylight goes out behind the neighbouring houses, and I try to imagine what it's like to count each day as your last.</p><p>“I haven’t told you a single lie, Hermione,” he says after a pause so long that considered an answer. “Yes, I do believe now that there’s nothing wrong with the Mark. And even if I’m wrong it doesn’t matter anymore.”</p><p>“It matters to me!” I cry in despair.</p><p>I start to tremble and I wrap my arms against my shoulders, though the room isn’t cold at all.</p><p>“I’m sorry, Little One,” he says, leaving his post by the window. “That is why I didn’t tell you right away.”</p><p>The daylight has gone out, it’s almost completely dark in the living room, and Severus lights the candles with a wave of his wand. He gets lost in a thought for a second, staring at the tiny tongues of living flame and tapping the wand against the palm of his hand. I remember this gesture from school—  he’s trying to formulate a way to communicate something too complex more clearly.</p><p>“I wouldn’t have told you anything… if the situation remained hopeless,” he finally says. “But since I’m still alive, I can share this with you. At any rate, you would have tortured me into baring my soul to you!”</p><p>He must be smiling, but you can hear it only in his voice. And  forgive me, but I don’t believe his dark optimism yet. </p><p><a id="back1" name="back1"></a><a id="back2" name="back2"></a>“I’m not Voldemort out to torture you,”<a href="#note16"><sup>16</sup></a> I say angrily. “And what do you mean I didn’t need to know? At what point were you going to tell me, I wonder? What if you hadn’t invented some kind of cure?”</p><p>“I didn’t invent anything.”</p><p>He’s definitely slipped into his role, and acts as if he’s under interrogation. It confuses me further to the point that I don’t understand anything anymore. And, once again, my hope is crushed by despair.</p><p>“Then what were you talking about just now?! And why aren’t you in St Mungo’s then?!”</p><p>He leans on the back of the chair, smirking, and watches me with that mysterious gaze of his. He has very beautiful eyes. Very. I can see mischief sparkling in his eyes again. He’s amused! Can you imagine? Knowing his strange sense of humour, now I’m even more worried. He’s having a great laugh while Rome burns. After all, more than two years have already passed since the victory; he must have understood what was happening to him a long time ago and, as much as is possible, gotten used to it. This must be not the worst of evenings— at least he has somebody to talk to! Some stupid, bellowing Gryffindor girl who is head over heels in love with him listens, slack-jawed, and shares his pain. Shall we die laughing, Severus? Tell me, <em>are</em> you dying or not?! I have a right to know, I <em>need</em> to know how much time I have left.</p><p>“They have already cured everything they could at St Mungo’s,” he explains, taking his time. “Do you really think that during all this time I haven’t tried to lift this curse? Do you think I don’t want to live?”</p><p>So it is a matter of life and death. I knew it! I feel as if I’ve known this for a long time.</p><p>“Then why did you stop trying?” I jump to my feet, unable to bear it. “Why do you waste your time with writing? You can think of something else; you understand magic like no one else does!  You are the best and you know it! You never gave in to Voldemort and you won’t do it now!”</p><p>He listens to me with obvious pleasure and even leans out a little from his depths. But he shatters my hopes with the same ruthlessness. </p><p>“I am… a clever man,” he says under his breath, and I shudder because I remember who gave such an authoritative opinion on him a second before subjecting him to painful death.</p><p>Severus nods imperceptibly, confirming that we are thinking about the same being— about somebody who was never really a human.</p><p>“But it’s hard to compete with Voldemort,” the Professor adds with a hint of modesty hardly ever seen in him. “To do so, one would need to immerse themselves in the Dark Arts as far as he did. That’s no better than death. Of course, there are some workarounds there. Every spell has a counter spell. There are some powers that are even beyond the reach of Voldemort. But they are beyond my control.” </p><p>He isn’t a human, he’s a walking puzzle.</p><p>“Beyond your control but not beyond your reach, at least?” I ask, trying with all my might to make sense of it.</p><p>I think I’m getting close. He looks like he’s brightened up and at the same time as if he’s scared of something. He doesn’t give himself away by his voice or gestures but I watch his face so hungrily, so desperately trying to understand what it is that he cannot say in a normal way that… I think I get it. Oh Merlin, I get it… And I start feeling terribly scared as well. As if I see his life being suspended on the thinnest, completely invisible and most elusive thread.</p><p>I’m a monster. I’m a reckless, selfish idiot. And why didn’t he say it yesterday, why?! It’s so dangerous… I almost faint at the thought that I could have just sent him an owl and stayed at the Burrow. And the curse has not been lifted yet. Does he even understand how much he risked?  Of course he understands, and he knows that it would have been impossible otherwise. It’s just <em>me</em> who’s as clever as a Crumple-Horned Snorkack.</p><p>But now I immediately remember what Luna told me today about the most powerful magic. Even Ron sensed it in me, though it had nothing to do with him. And Professor Dumbledore reminded us of it a hundred times! Harry repeated another hundred times why he was immune to Voldemort’s power. I remember everything that happened today. I remember Harry and Ginny, and I understand that I’m <em>not</em> mistaken. Only a creature of darkness wouldn't have felt the real magic in that wedding tent. This special kind of magic is what ultimately defeated the Dark Lord. It protected all of us— everyone who fought against him.</p><p>Except Severus. He didn’t have this protection. He never had. And I feel chilled to the bone as never before. He, who could shield himself from all sides with all existing magical and mental barriers, lacked the truest shield. I want to cover and protect him but… how? Throw a blanket over him? And I… I’m already here.</p><p>“The most important thing is that you are here, next to me,” Severus says. My face displays such a range of emotions that he must have been seriously afraid of being swaddled with a blanket. “And that’s enough to live.”</p><p>Some things are still beyond my comprehension.</p><p>“Then why…?” I can’t find the right words to describe his slow suicide. “Why was it necessary to lock yourself up in an empty house in an abandoned part of the city behind a ruined mill? In a city where no one knows who you really are?! Severus, you could have… you could have found <em>somebody</em>… much earlier… You could have tried! Did you try?”</p><p>He’s shaking his head again. Who can understand it, really? Well, I can but he needs to explain where my uniqueness lies. Otherwise I’m afraid I’ll do something wrong again.</p><p>“It’s not that simple, Little One,” he says almost tenderly. “Until you showed up, I only vaguely suspected that love might help. Let’s just say that I haven't had much luck in love in previous years. And Voldemort’s curse doesn’t particularly add to my appeal. Even in the ideal course of events...” his gaze makes me lower my eyes, “...my wish to fall in love would have nipped that plan in the bud.”</p><p>I still can’t look up at him. I seem to see him again, standing in the doorframe of his study, clutching his Mark and asking tensely ‘What do you think about me?’. Did he feel that the curse was beginning to deteriorate even then? Surely he did, and that’s why he appeared wearing the Death Eater mask later. Inimitable man.</p><p>I’m torn between hope and despair again. My God, it’s all so vexing! It’s completely unfair! Why must it be like this? I suppose this is why the curse doesn’t just go away. And what should I do now? How can it be lifted? Maybe Severus can Obliviate me and we can start everything from a scratch? I would fall in love with him again. Oh no—  then he’d need to be Obliviated as well…</p><p>Oh, may he <em>rot in hell</em>, that Voldemort! Somewhere in the most hellish of all hells! I’m not evil or vengeful but I’d love to kill him with my own hands right now. Or maybe with my teeth... if only I could reach him. But Voldemort can no longer be reached, making his magic irreversible and the situation hopeless. I start to cry.</p><p>“It’s not fair!” I utter something hopelessly Gryffindorish that has nothing to do with the Dark Lord. “You did everything right! And this book, and the house… Yes, at first you only wanted to live, so what? There are countless reasons why people get closer! But now everything is real, I can feel it! You said it yourself that it doesn’t matter to you how it ends anymore— you said it yourself, remember?”</p><p>I sort of try to cheer him up and he regards me with such amazement that his mask slips away for a moment. He takes a step towards me and wavers. He wants to say something and stops short. I falter as well and look at him in disbelief. I don’t think I mixed something up. And I didn’t say anything new.</p><p>“Do you perhaps think that the problem lies in me?” I ask with a sinking heart. “That I will be offended now... or scared? Or, that I’ll change my mind?” </p><p>I take a step towards him, too, but he is silent. I stop before his silence, as before an invisible line.</p><p>“But I really <em>do</em> understand everything!” I assure him not very convincingly. “I can’t live without you. <em>I don’t want to</em>. I don’t know how to put it in words that will make you believe me. I really think that you considered everything quite thoroughly...”</p><p>Unbelievably—  he starts laughing. Right now. For the first time in the ten years since our acquaintance. I’m so lost that I’m almost scared, and for a moment I cannot figure out how I should take it. But he laughs. He leans against the back of the chair first, and then he succumbs to it—  he’s having <em>that much</em> fun—  and slumps down right on the floor. </p><p>He throws his head back and laughs. </p><p>He drops his face into his hands and laughs. </p><p>“Severus…” I say with concern and kneel down beside him.</p><p>I already told him to go to bed. But, of course, it was necessary to talk right now about everything that’s happening in detail. We’ll surely need to finish the memoirs as well.</p><p>He freezes and, it seems, stops breathing. And then he looks at me with such a strange expression that, for a second, I’m filled with delusional certainty that he will suggest, ‘Now let’s sit and write it all down.’</p><p>“But I didn’t <em>consider</em> anything, Hermione,” he says with a strange grin. “I already told you that I didn’t lie to you. I had no idea who your Mr Pollard would send to me. I did not hope to elicit feelings in you, and had even less hope to awaken them in me. I thought it was impossible. Especially since the last time I saw you was in your sixth year at Hogwarts.”</p><p>To be truthful, there was another encounter, which you cannot really call ‘an encounter,’ but he’s right— it’s better not to mention it. I bite my lips until they bleed and wonder for the hundredth time at what a fool I am. I always thought I was clever!</p><p>“You were just another student to me, if slightly more intelligent and pushy than the others,” says my <em>gracious</em> Professor, though really it was true. “But mostly I saw you as an intellectual attachment to Potter.”</p><p>I'm afraid he's going to give me that key again. And why am I always putting my foot in my mouth?! Why did I imply that he purposefully set a trap? And who did I really think I was that he would choose me? But he <em>did</em> choose me, after all! And I didn’t really intend to offend him. I can be such an idiot, but I have good intentions. There’s only one big question remaining: if everyone has good intentions, why are we both feeling so lousy, why are we sitting here on the floor, not looking at each other, and why is the curse not lifted yet? What else does the curse need? To cause a rift between us for good?</p><p>I rest my head on Severus’s shoulder. He doesn’t need to look at me, it doesn’t matter. I ask quietly, “When did everything change?”</p><p>I know it’s a stupid question, but our smart conversations are too bleak.</p><p>“Little by little,” he replies, very tired. “As everything else lost its relevance.”</p><p>I understand. In his situation you don’t care about anything anymore. And this strange return to his hated childhood home is just a way to hide himself somewhere far away. And the book of memoirs he was in such a hurry to finish is a way to let go of the past, round by round, chapter by chapter. To rest from the many years lying. To accept it all, to say goodbye, and depart. </p><p>I feel like it will take a long time for me to get used to his ways. He’s too complex. He constantly needs to be translated into a common language.</p><p>“A confession,” I manage to find a word for it. “Is that the only reason why you did it?”</p><p>He laughs at my elevated fantasies: “It’s more like I had some time to kill. But if it makes you happy, it could also be out of the sense of duty. Why should Potter be the one who knows the most about me?” my Professor finally turns to me and looks at me archly. “How is he, by the way? Happy, I hope?”</p><p>“Quite,” I admit.</p><p>“It seems that this chapter is finished as well.”</p><p>‘Finished‘— what a grim word!</p><p>“That’s great. Now, let’s burn this scroll and forget everything,” I exclaim on an impulse.</p><p>Severus looks at me for a second and then kisses me on my forehead with a sigh.</p><p>“Why burn it?” he says persuasively. “We will insert your chapters and add the new ones… Or do you wish to quit your work with a good scandal?”</p><p>Oh, he’s worried about <em>my work</em>!</p><p>“Whatever do you mean by that, Professor? I’ll just tell everybody how you treated me here and they will sympathize with me!” I reply and make a face. “But, what will you do with yourself now? If we’re… <em>finished</em> with the memoirs. Will you return to Hogwarts?”</p><p>I try to figure out how much he believes in the things he says. I don’t know how to crack professional spies but if I were to guess, he doesn’t believe in what he’s saying at all. His answer, ‘Maybe. I’ll think about it,’ sounds much too indifferent.</p><p>I shut up, burying my face in his shoulder. I can imagine how terrifying it is to die here alone. How you’d wish to have at least one living soul by your side. I want to help him so much but I have absolutely no idea how.</p><p>“But now you have something to lose, don’t you?” I point out quietly. “Since you say that you feel much better with me. Tell me, what else can be done? Severus?”</p><p>He kisses my hair, and because of it for some reason I want to bawl again.</p><p>“I don’t know, Little One. If I knew, I’d tell you.”</p><p>Well, I suppose technically he’s not lying anymore. Not to me, at least. He just conveniently omits things or doesn’t say anything at all.</p><p>“Anyway, we have more time now. We’re certain to come up with something, you’ll see!” I try to look as enthusiastic and confident as I can. “Well… <em>you’ll</em> come up with something. After all, the Dark Mark is just a brand of magic!”</p><p>He winces, but at least he’s no longer wearing that stonelike expression on his face, my efforts not being in vain.</p><p>“The Galleons you used to communicate in the Dumbledore’s Army were <em>‘just a brand of magic’</em>.”</p><p>Oh! I was so certain it was a well-kept secret! Although, if everyone knew about the Dark Marks…</p><p>“The Mark differs from the Galleons in every possible way,” the Professor explains, continuing to fiddle with my hair. “This is a completely different level of magic, and it’s not <em>my</em> magic. I know very little about it and cannot read it. You can try if you’d like. Just not today.”</p><p>Not today. Says who? Does that mean he’s not in a hurry? Or doesn’t he have faith in me? He should have let me try, if only out of courtesy!</p><p>“I won’t die today. Nor tomorrow,” he says looking into my teary eyes. </p><p>Yes, he can read minds! But I should feel something when he does it, shouldn’t I?</p><p>“It’s written all over your face,” he smirks, guessing the question correctly again. “Hermione, I don’t want to talk about the curse anymore. This is not a very fun topic.”</p><p>Yes, and the most important thing is that he’s having <em>fun</em>! I suspect his next move won’t be turning on some music, but to order me to take up my quill and parchment or he’ll hide in his room in order to proudly suffer in solitude. That’s why I quickly drop myself into his lap—  so he can’t run away. And I kiss him— so he won’t start ordering me around. And if he doesn’t want to talk about the curse, we won’t. It would be impossible to change his mind anyway. But I can still beat him in his own game.</p><p>My lack of experience in kissing him makes me unsure how long I should do so to make him forget his memoirs and… most other things. He brings the kiss to an end himself, pulling away after a while. He looks a bit livelier now. His eyes sparkle and his face is more expressive. <em>Don’t even think about touching me…</em> But what if, on the contrary, you <em>need</em> to touch him more often? He shakes his head. He hasn't agreed with me on anything yet! What’s wrong now?</p><p>“I don’t think that’s the case, Hermione,” he says in a low voice.</p><p>“You told me to forget about the curse, sir, and find something more fun to do.”</p><p>I hope he doesn’t think I’m too flighty. Or let him think it. He can think whatever he wants, just not that I feel insanely sorry for him or that I’m insanely scared for him or... What if he lied to me when he made the promise about today or tomorrow? Is it written in my face again?</p><p>“Silly girl,” he says even more softly, but he doesn’t push me off his lap.</p><p>But why, really? If he’s still alive, that means that we really are… we are…</p><p>“Come to me, Little One,” his voice becomes a whisper and I think I finally understand what Legilimency is because I cannot <em>not</em> look into his eyes.</p><p>He nevertheless decides to return to the surface from his bottomless depths, and I suddenly become afraid as if I must catch him and hold him tight. Tear him away from his damned Dark Lord. Pull him ashore. Yes, he’s right that being close has nothing to do with it; it’s something else entirely. However, <em>being close</em>... matters… Because if he keeps me at a distance and dives into his depths all the time, then how can I… catch him?</p><p>He scoops me up and pulls me closer, getting tangled in my long skirt in the process. I shift my position in his lap a bit to make it easier for me to kiss him. And to make it easier for him to kiss me. Neither of us thinks about stopping any more, I just warn him, knowing that I'm leaning on him with all my weight, “Listen, if you’re feeling unwell...”</p><p>“I feel well. I’m feeling better and better,” he half-smiles, searching for the zipper of my dress on my back. “I thought I already told you not to think about it.”</p><p>“How can I… stop thinking?” I protest, wrapping my legs around him.</p><p>“Just stop.”</p><p>It must be some kind of Occlumency exercise… a short course. But he achieves his goal. I lose my train of thought for a while until I cannot think at all. It’s so unlike how Ron and I kissed...<em>in every possible way</em>. I cannot say that it was bad or unpleasant before, but when I touch Severus I feel as if there’s a whole world under my fingers, from which somebody gifted me a key— him or some higher power. Or was this key always stored somewhere inside of me? I don’t know anything anymore, I get lost in these revelations. And I almost don’t notice how he unfastens my dress— just a slight coolness as the straps fall off my shoulders, leaving me exposed to the waistline. I don’t give a damn. I mean, I <em>do</em> give a damn, of course. I know that I’m blushing, because the candles are too bright… his eyes are too. If I had the Time-Turner still, I’d turn back to this moment indefinitely. I don’t think I have ever seen anyone so beautiful as Severus Snape. I hope I don’t disappoint him. Oh Merlin, what are we doing? What am <em>I</em> doing?</p><p>I slowly raise my hands and pull the hairpins out of my hair, shortsightedly throwing them down on the floor, or, more precisely, on the crumpled skirt of my dress which slightly covers us and half of the carpet in the tiny living room. I try not to break my gaze from Severus’ face for even a second, and he looks at me too, not taking his eyes off of me. It feels like it lasts a lifetime, but I don’t think we would have borne with it for so long if that was true. Finally, the last hairpin falls, letting my hair cascade down with relief, and he presses his lips to my shoulder. He holds me close and showers me with kisses— he kisses and kisses me again, and again as if he doesn’t want to miss a single inch of my skin. </p><p>And yet he wasn’t completely truthful— he’s definitely feeling <em>much</em> better. That’s the last coherent thought that flashes somewhere in the back of my mind before I clutch his shoulders, moaning. My lips have become absolutely dry but we kiss again, and again, and again… I find it difficult to free him from his clothes but he helps me. There are fewer obstacles for him, he just tears the lace off, and I continue to revel in his touch. His hands are warm this time, and this time it is also exactly what I need. Finally, our senses somehow merge and I don’t need to wonder how he really feels. Just a little more, and the visible dimension will unite with the invisible, where everything consists of mazes and abysses.  If I can I will touch him there, too. The real him, not one of the thousand masks he wears. </p><p>“I love you...love you,” I sob before I sink down onto him. Then I cannot say anything anymore— or, I don’t <em>remember</em> what I say. I no longer feel like I’m a separate being. It feels as though I’m diving after him into his bottomless depths, and somewhere there we meet only to be pushed back to the surface with incredible force. Here, in this world, he throws his head back with an endless moan. In this world I cry out, tensing up, arching back in his arms in an agonizing effort to gasp for air, to escape from the depths… or to never come up— to linger forever between the summit and the abyss.</p><p>I fall on his chest and I hardly can catch my breath, as if I had really been submerged. It seems to me as if we are still being rocked by the waves and his hair is wet with water, not with sweat. It takes a lot of effort to shake off this illusion. But Severus is again beginning to slip away on his own. The stubborn man thinks he doesn’t need anything! Good things <em>are</em> to be enjoyed in small doses, though. <em>’You’ve gotten your pleasure, Hermione, and there’s no need ‘save’ me further.’</em> But, he turns pale again, and it looks like he’s holding his breath from pain. I jerk back to my senses. <em>What a euphoric twit I am!<em> I roll off of his arm, muttering “Sorry! Sorry! Sorry!...”</em></em></p><p>
  <em>
    <em>He never warned me about anything like this before, nor had never made a show of it. But I should have remembered about the pain that the Mark can bring! For some reason, I assumed that once the attack had passed… I mean, before it only <em>hurt</em> in certain moments! Before… But I have never seen anything like <em>this</em> until now. I sob and press my hands over my mouth.</em>
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    <em>Severus regards his blood-covered hand with indifference, wipes it on the carpet, and looks around for his wand. While I sob, he picks up his wand from the chair with his good hand and vanishes the blood from the carpet as well as from my dress. His sleeve is also thoroughly drenched in blood, just not visibly on the black.</em>
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</p><p>
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    <em>“I told you not to pay it any mind,” he reminds me. “It knows that it doesn’t have much time left, so it’s angry.”</em>
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</p><p>
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    <em>Of course, he doesn’t fool me <em>in the least.</em> He <em>always</em> means <em>exactly</em> what he says… <em>right</em>. And this is where his familiar composed detachment comes from. Before he has a chance to completely bury his head in the sand, I hastily wipe my eyes and say to him, “Let’s go upstairs. We need to bandage it.”</em>
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</p><p>
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    <em>“You can bandage it, I suppose,” he agrees blankly.</em>
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</p><p>
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    <em><em>Or we could sing songs. Or hug each other and cry.</em> Or… what were we doing on the carpet here in front of the fireplace? I can’t remember who lit it or when, but if I had my way, I’d sit here with him until morning, holding each other and staring into the fire, and nothing else. I don’t need anything— only for him to live. But I get to my feet, of course, and make myself as decent and businesslike as possible. He stands, too, and you would never tell from his appearance what he was doing a minute ago, whether he were talking with Voldemort or, perhaps, throwing a jar full of cockroaches at Harry. </em>
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</p><p>
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    <em>I hope he won’t order me to focus on work again— on the last chapter. It would be so like him.</em>
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    <em>He doesn’t give any orders. He stands, leaning heavily on his good hand against the chair, and watches the flame in the fireplace. He looks at it and smirks. And the flame alternates reflecting, then dimming in his eyes.</em>
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  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p><a id="note15" name="note15"></a><sup>15</sup>Translator’s note: <strong>Anna Akhmatova</strong> (Анна Ахматова; 23 June 1889 – 5 March 1966) was one of the most significant Russian poets of the 20th century. She was shortlisted for the Nobel Prize in 1965 and received second-most (three) nominations for the award the following year. The excerpt you read here comes from the “The complete poems of Anna Akhmatova,” Vol. 2, and has been translated by Judith Hemschemeyer. We would definitely recommend digitally borrowing the book to read the whole poem  <a href="https://archive.org/details/completepoemsofa0002akhm">here</a> (on Page 355) It’s a wonderful, but short and suspenseful horror tale.</p><p><a id="note16" name="note16"></a><sup>16</sup>Translator’s note: <strong>“At any rate, you would have tortured me into baring my soul to you!”</strong> In Russian Severus says “At any rate, you will rip/take out my soul out of me!” (Всё равно ты душу из меня вынешь! ) In Russian ‘to rip/take out one’s soul out of somebody’ means to extract information out of someone and/or torment to the point of exhaustion with threats and reprimands. Hermione answers to this with “I’m not Voldemort to rip the soul” (Я не Волдеморт, чтобы вынимать душу). Surely, you understand the wordplay here ;)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Prince</h2></a>
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    <p>
  <em>And there is no coffin! No separation!<br/>
A disenchanted table, the house awakened.<br/>
Like death, appearing at the wedding feast—<br/>
I am the life that came to dinner.</em>
</p><p><a id="back1" name="back1"></a><a id="back2" name="back2"></a>Marina Tsvetaeva<a href="#note17"><sup>17</sup></a></p><p>Quickly, before my Professor remembers his sense of duty (or whatever he calls it), I force him to walk upstairs to his study and show me his arm. He shows it to me with absolute indifference. I almost faint, but he tries to reassure me by saying that it’s not always like this, and, generally speaking, it was worse before. He’s either deceiving me yet again by claiming that love has had such a positive effect on him, or I’m just lucky that I didn’t see what it looked like before. </p><p>Because his Mark looks like it was <em>just</em> brandished into his skin with a red hot iron on top of the old burns cast by the same tool.</p><p>With trembling hands, I search his shelves for some kind of tinctures or salves and remember all the time we spent in this house together. Especially his habit of locking himself up in solitude for one or several days due to some far-fetched reason. </p><p>He is not going to send me away today, is he?</p><p>He doesn’t. Or he’s not sure he can make me. Or he really thinks that it’s nothing to worry about. He even allows me to apply some mysterious mixture to the inflamed and bleeding wound, which must dry first, then it must be absorbed, and only afterwards can you bandage his arm. </p><p>If we have time.</p><p>Oh Merlin, Merlin, Merlin. </p><p>Oh, Severus, Severus, Severus.</p><p>I manage to persuade him to undress and lie down. What kind of plan is this, to just lie around and wait to see if it helps or not? I demand that he cuts his shirtsleeve to avoid worrying his injured arm.</p><p>“Cut it, then,” he smirks. It’s a good thing I can amuse him with my efforts. He’s rarely amused.</p><p>It’s nearing midnight when we move to his bedroom. It’s definitely closer than mine, and there are no ghosts flying here. Severus, at least, claims to have seen none. Well, since there are no other beings here, I strip him naked and strip naked myself, put a candle next to the bed to make it easier for me to watch over him, and climb under the blanket. He’s so gaunt as if his body is held together by magic alone. And he’s very hot. There’s something happening to him again, I can feel it. He’s getting weaker in front of my eyes, sinking deeper and deeper into a place where it is more and more difficult to reach him. I don’t know how much it hurts him, he doesn’t say. But his face is whiter than a sheet now.</p><p>“Be patient,” he says to me, gesturing toward the Mark with his eyes. “It will dry soon and I’ll cover it.”</p><p>As if I’m the one who is suffering! I settle on the side of his sound arm, put my head on his chest and say nothing.</p><p>“It would be better if you went back to your room. Nothing of interest will happen to it today,” he adds.</p><p>And, he’s not lying, of course. He’s just crafty with his words.</p><p>I keep silent.</p><p>“Don’t be silent.”</p><p>“It was <em>interesting enough</em> today,” I say, making myself more comfortable. He won’t be chasing me away! No, he won’t.</p><p>“You know, I never intended to fall in love with you either, Professor,” I confess, smiling casually at him. He looks deathly pale and scared to death. “I always respected you as a teacher, even though your behaviour was horrendous. And, when you were in the Order of the Phoenix, I even admired you. Then when disaster struck, I just tried to avoid thinking about you altogether.”</p><p>“So you <em>can</em> do it, after all, Hermione,” he interjects casually. “And this is the woman I’ve decided to marry?”</p><p>So he’d decided? How <em>nice</em> of him to tell me that! The contours of the Mark become more distinct, and I realize something will happen soon. Something that will probably scare my hair gray.</p><p>“Don’t interrupt me, Professor! I’m declaring my love to you!” I say, running my fingers through his tangled, long hair. “Where did I stop? Oh, yes— I was very young then, to be fair. I only recently became an adult.”</p><p>“How delicate of you to remind me of my age,” his voice is growing dull, but he’s still with me, for now.</p><p>“May I remind you that I know everything about you now,” I reassure him, twisting a strand of black and gray hair on my finger. “If I had known then what I know now, I would have gone mad. That, or I’d have fallen in love with you and chased after you like some fool, and you would have thrown cockroaches at me. You know, you can be really scary, Professor.”</p><p>“Maybe I should go wash my hair?” he offers, but I doubt he can stand up now. “Or, at least, turn off the light?”</p><p>“I don’t think it makes sense anymore,” I sigh.</p><p>“Yes, you’re right.”</p><p>The clock in the living room begins to strike midnight—  why have I never heard this sound before? Oh, yes, I slept one floor above. It feels like I have been here forever.</p><p>“I didn’t turn into a pumpkin,” I say proudly.</p><p>Severus is silent, he kisses my hair and listens carefully to the sound of the clock, as if it amazes him too.</p><p>“All right, stop ‘knitting a hat’ for me,” he says when it’s all quiet again. “It’s already late. Get some rest, Little One.”</p><p>This time, most likely, he means only what he says. It is getting late. But I’m used to painfully reflecting on every word he says. First, is it true or not? Second, what does ‘late’ mean for him? Does this mean that the Dark Mark will flare up at midnight? Or that it will never let him go? </p><p>I can no longer bear the unknown. I don’t understand how he can tolerate it? His hands and feet are getting cold, I can feel them, I can feel him shivering, but he keeps looking at me serenely. There’s no fear, no despair, no hope.</p><p>It doesn’t matter, I can guess what he's thinking anyway. He’s hiding in some Spinner’s End again, and he’s alone there. He’s next to me, and yet alone. Who else can do that? Why does he do it? Is it because it’s easier for him to hold his shield up than to drop it? Because he wants to live and he sees that nothing is working out? Because he’s afraid of the pain and knows that it’s inevitable? Or because his last hope failed and he doesn’t have enough strength to throw me out? He thinks too much. It’s a great way to not give in to panic, of course, but it’s also how people go mad.</p><p>I know that this is not the best time for displays of tenderness, but I roll myself onto him anyway, careful not to touch his bleeding Mark. I want him to be as close as possible and not be able to pull away.</p><p>“How do you remove it?” I ask him, looking him straight into the eyes.</p><p>He’s getting further, and further, and further away. It’s terrifying! But he is fully conscious and he answers clearly. </p><p>“The hat?”</p><p>I don’t think there’s a hat to be removed. I don’t immediately understand what he is talking about and I fear that this is the beginning of a delirium. I have already forgotten where we’d left off.</p><p>“No. Your Occlumency shield.”</p><p>I think Severus is smiling, barely noticeably, with the corners of his lips, but it looks like a real human smile for the first time. He closes his eyes and I feel a hundred times more afraid, because I lose the contact with him and I don’t know what’s going on. He opens his eyes and I can finally see him completely. I see <em>him</em>. I begin to see him <em>clearly</em>. And this… <em>this</em>… This should stay only between us. I cannot really express it with words! He becomes younger and older at once. He’s more powerful and more vulnerable. As if all those labyrinths and abysses connect with each other— like chapters of a book— merging into something singular.</p><p>I don’t want to ask him if he’s afraid or not, if he’s hurting or not. I just hug him tightly with my hands and feet. I hold him close and it’s enough for me that he agrees to lower his head onto my shoulder. At least for some moments, during which he says, “I love you, Little One. I love you so much.”</p><p>And we wait.</p><p>And the Dark Mark disappears. Forever.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>* * *</p>
</div>After two week’s time, I manage to catch him. I’m taking a walk home on the familiar road and thinking about a new article on Magecology. Now I know exactly where to Apparate to, and I could take a shortcut, but I want to take a look at the river and walk along Spinner’s End.<p>There will be dissatisfied people in the Ministry of Magic. No matter how loyal our much-beloved Minister Shacklebolt is, by law the funds of Magical World are only allotted to improve the places where wizards live. Don’t they live here? Who are we then? Even if I was not considered magical enough, nobody would dare say anything against Severus Snape. If he isn’t a wizard, then I don’t know who is!</p><p>And don’t they even dare hope that I will just let it be! After Severus gave me the green light to publish some selected chapters from his memoirs, Mister Pollard kissed my hands for a half an hour, promised me the position of Deputy Chief Editor, and gave me a lifetime column in which I could write about whatever I wanted. So, tremble ye who don’t respect the rights of house elves, environmental issues, or the heroes of the Magic World! Bathing in those beautiful daydreams, I almost reach the turn I need to take when I suddenly notice my elusive Ghost turning into the next street. I was too lost in my thoughts to get a good look at him, but I definitely recognized my striped scarf.</p><p>This ubiquitous shadow has learned all the alleys and nooks here, of course. But the pavement is dry and I have my comfortable boots on, so I run a half a mile after him, never lagging. I could use magic but I don’t want to scare him completely. And there’s no need, really. Under another boarded-up window, I finally manage to grab him by his shoulders and pin him against the wall so that he can’t vanish again.</p><p>He breathes heavily, looks away, and stiffens under my arms ready for fight and flight simultaneously. He’s silent. But I recognize him immediately. I look around — the street looks empty and deserted, and the chimney of the mill rises a little to our right, behind an identical row of brick houses with peeling walls.</p><p>“Hi. You live somewhere here, right?” I say to the Ghost. “Why did you try to trick me?”</p><p>He struggles frantically, puffing through his cold nose and not saying a word. But I know how to hold tight, and he gives up in the end. Weak looking, even for his age, he is gasping for breath and is already trembling from the effort. He leans back against the crumbling plaster, flushed and sweaty, still wearing the same oversized jacket, too light for the winter and too warm for a fine spring day.</p><p>“Yeah, I really need you to mither to me parents!”</p><p>In fact, he wasn’t planning to give up at all, and he tries to shove his head into my stomach and disappear into thin air again. But I was just waiting for something like that to happen, so I manage to dodge him.</p><p>“Oh but I didn’t think to complain at all. I was going to invite you to visit me,” I explain to him. “Will you, please, stop butting me?”</p><p>He wrenches himself out of my grasp and takes two steps away, but he doesn’t run away completely.</p><p>“Why are you bothering me?” he asks, narrowing his eyes. “What you after?”</p><p>“I need to measure your head— to knit a matching hat to the scarf,” I say in my most serious voice. “And I always bake more cookies than I need. I’ll need you to help finish them.”</p><p>To be honest, I have never actually baked cookies. I will need to fill this gap urgently. I’ll ask Mrs Weasley for a recipe. While I’m mulling it over, the Ghost who’s gradually beginning to resemble a boy, stares at me as if I were a… well, as if I were a ghost. With an amazement which borders fear. But his eyes are already wide open, and I know that he’ll come.</p><p>“In short, you can drop by whenever you want. My name is Hermione. Will you remember that?” I say, deciding to allow him some time to recover. </p><p>He frowns, nods, turns around without saying goodbye, and walks away. Oh well. It’s just as well. How difficult it is with him! I also turn around and walk my own way. It wouldn’t hurt to see where he lives, but, of course, now is not the right time…</p><p>I freeze, turning around and dashing after him again. I’m almost ready to believe that he has disappeared into thin air again. But he hasn’t vanished yet, and I manage to catch him by the sleeve. He flinches, but less severely than the last time.</p><p>“You didn’t even ask for the address!” I say, panting from the run. “So... how did you manage to get into the attic?”</p><p>His face expresses equal parts fear and defiance, but he doesn’t fight back and he doesn’t give up.</p><p>“Only had to pull the nails out of two boards. So that I can get out the house whenever I want,”  he says with a mixture of anger and pride.</p><p>Now he feels almost real. He pushes his hair that sticks to his forehead away, and sneers at my bewilderment.</p><p>“Our houses share the same back wall,” he explains to me as if I were some alien from outer space. “I only went once. Thought it were empty for a long time. You can mither all you want. Me dad’s already given me his belt,” he shrugs indifferently and adds with genuine sadness, “And he bolted it wi’ screws. The wanker.”</p><p>I shudder and bite my lip in order not to burst into tears— this final impression is too much. I want to either hug him or pat him on his head, but I guess he won’t let me right now. I’m so overwhelmed that it takes me a moment to get a hold on what he’s talking about when, after a pause, he asks me, almost in a whisper, “If I come, will you tell me why are the leaves moving on that tree?”</p><p>What tree? There are no trees in the area… Oh! And I feel another shock. Oh, Merlin! It’s a good thing he didn’t see any other magic in our home. We’ll have to find out if he’s a wizard or not. Later. And if he’s not, I will need to come up with some reasonable explanation. A very reasonable one. He’s too clever and too distrusting.</p><p>“Will you come then?” I ask, adjusting his filthy scarf, which is absolutely unnecessary in this heat.</p><p>He finally nods.</p><p>“I will tell you… then,” I smile and I want to bid him goodbye properly, but I know there’s something missing for it.</p><p>“What’s your name?” I ask finally, and my completely neutral question makes him pull away suddenly.</p><p>I remember he didn’t answer me the last time either. He is a strange boy, after all. A very strange boy, and very much like a ghost. Especially now when he retreats deeper and deeper into the shadow of the wall, as if disintegrating before my eyes. A pale face, dark, uncut hair, a sombre expression without a hint of a smile, and slightly angular yet swift movements. Not a child, but a walking puzzle!</p><p>“Is it some terrible secret?” I ask, as if nothing special is going on. “It’s ok if you don’t want to tell me!”</p><p>The Ghost’s face contorts with genuine suffering, and I see that would be much easier for him to disappear than answer this question.</p><p>“Prince,” he drops it like some pebble into a tin, and I don’t know if I can survive this third shock.</p><p>Against my will, I am overwhelmed by the strong emotions this schism from reality has provoked. I don’t understand— is this a coincidence, or a joke, or are they really related? I even have a crazy notion that he’s Severus’ child, and that he just didn’t tell me for some understandable or incomprehensible reason. It seems impossible. But what is possible then?</p><p>I must look so dumbfounded that I’m probably scaring the boy, who isn’t at fault here at all. Before he runs away and disappears again, I pull him into the light by his hands. In the light the illusion disintegrates, and I see that his eyes aren’t black, but dark grey. And his hair is slightly lighter. And he isn’t afraid in the slightest. He sighs knowingly and says through gritted teeth, “I know that I don’t look like a Prince. That’s me mam’s fault. Woman that lived there before you were a bit bonkers, like. Kept saying she were one of the Princes. Me mam were taken with it. Named me this way… But even in school, they call me by me surname. You can call me that way as well. I’m used to it.”</p><p>He gives me a completely unfamiliar surname and I finally return to my senses. What can I say— poor child. I can only imagine what it’s like for him at the local school! And what will it be like for him at Hogwarts, I wonder, watching as he nervously brings down the drain pipe from the roof of the house on the other side of the street. He flinches and moves his gaze back to me again, pretending that he had nothing to do with it. Well, I’ll see you later, little prince!</p><p>“See you, Prince!” I say and wave him goodbye.</p><p>He doesn’t answer me. He doesn’t wave back. It doesn’t matter, he’ll learn. There’s still time. </p><p>I follow the familiar alley and quickly take the neighbouring street, where I head back home to Spinner’s End, House Nr. 9, in the city of Cokeworth. I walk there and think how nice it is that spring has come! And that there’s no more war. And that our book hasn’t been burned. And that there is this city, this street, this house, and that fine boy next door. And that I have him— my Severus. It means that everything is fixable, and that everything will be alright. </p><p>
  <em>The End.</em>
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  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p><a id="note17" name="note17"></a><sup>17</sup>Translator’s note: A fragment from Marina Tsvetaeva’s poem “I Keep Repeating The First Line” (Всё повторяю первый стих...). Translation by us. </p><p>The work is finished here. The next chapter isn’t a real chapter, but some additional notes about this work.</p><p><strong>Thank you for staying with us, dear reader! </strong> We hope you enjoyed this story as much as we did. If you did *in slightly nasal, annoying Youtuber’s voice*, please leave a comment below or hit that ‘Kudos’ button. It totally motivates us to do more work in the future. *nasal voice ends*</p>
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<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Some Additional Notes</h2></a>
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    <p>As you may have noticed, this work alludes to several fairy tales and or/horror stories. Did you manage to spot them all?</p><p> </p><p>1.<em>"In a dark town, there was a dark neighbourhood. In the dark neighbourhood, there was a dark street. On the dark street, next to a dark chimney, there was a dark house. In the dark house, there lived a dark wizard…"</em></p><p>This is an allusion to a horror tale/joke which is oftentimes told among children in many, not only ex-Soviet, countries. The tale usually follows the same formula. Here’s an example of one:</p><p>
  <em>In a dark dark world, in a dark dark country there was a dark dark city. And in this dark dark city there was a dark dark neighbourhood. And in that dark dark neighbourhood there was a dark dark street with a dark dark tree. And on that dark dark tree sat two dirty boys. And one of those boys said to another: “I told you it was a bad idea to burn those tires!!”</em>
</p><p>There’s also another one about the <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4x7ewDWR6NQ">dark wood</a> which illustrates the typical manner how these stories are told.</p><p>This introduction wasn’t part of the original author’s summary, however, it seems Agamma alludes to this formula in this work. So D.C. thought — why not put it into the summary as well?</p><p>2.<em>Without a word, he opens one drawer of the cupboard, then another, finds a rusty key, and hands it to me. “Just don’t forget to wipe off the blood afterwards, Hermione,” he warns me in a confidential, yet ominous whisper. “Or <strong>you</strong> will become the seventh one.”</em> — <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bluebeard">Bluebeard.</a></p><p>3.<em>“Don’t worry about it! The lake that puddled [from Ron’s tears] in the middle of the sales floor is a great customer attraction,” George grins.</em> — Tchaikovsky’s ballet <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Swan_Lake">‘Swan Lake’</a>. The lake where the main character Odette swam was created by her mother’s tears. Also, you could probably see some parallels in the depiction of Severus’ Occlumency as well. A big thank you to FrancineHibiscus for not letting us to miss this link.</p><p>4.<em>“He flinches but he doesn’t open his eyes immediately, he opens them very slowly, as if bespelled or waking from anesthesia. (…) But he’s already come to his senses, frees his hand from under the book and looks at his palm absentmindedly before he runs it down his face. This gesture seems somewhat odd and so unlike a normal gesture— as if he’s removing an invisible cobweb.”</em> — <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sleeping_Beauty">Sleeping Beauty</a>.</p><p>5.<em>“Probably, because I’ve been cursed,” he smirks darkly. “I can’t live without you. I will die of grief and despair.”</em> — <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Beauty_and_the_Beast">Beauty and the Beast</a>, of course.</p><p>6.<em>“Well, I’ll see you later, little prince!”</em> — this might be a reference to Antoine de Saint-Exupéry’s <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Little_Prince">‘The Little Prince’.</a> The famous phrase “You become responsible, forever, for what you have tamed.” comes from here.</p><p>We hope we didn’t miss anything.</p><p>*Additional note from D.C: </p><p>During the translation process I had a wonderful opportunity to talk with the original author of this story Agamma. This most lovely person said that she was pretty much inspired by the Russian version of the ‘Beauty and the Beast’ — <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Scarlet_Flower">‘The Scarlet Flower’</a> (Аленький цветочек), a Russian folk tale written by Sergei Aksakov. Should you be so inclined, there are two wonderful adaptations you can watch online. The one is a beautiful Soviet animated film from 1952, dubbed in English on Youtube <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kO0AFFI2pbc">here</a> and then there’s the film from 1978 which you can watch with English subtitles (also on Youtube) <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ACqN6jY4wnQ">here</a>.</p>
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